


Smells Like Trek Spirit

by Adenil



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: (sort of), A Fuck-ton of Foreplay, Aliens Made Them Do It, Anal Fingering, Biting, Come Eating, Come Marking, Creepy Ambassador, Foreplay, Hand & Finger Kink, Just Enough Plot to Make It Make Sense, Licking, Like Seriously So Much Licking, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Assault but No Assault, Non-Human Genitalia, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Spock is Way Into It, This fic has nothing to do with Nirvana, This is Just an Excuse for Spock to Lick McCoy, Vulcan Biology, human genitalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: “Spock, I never thought I’d live to see the day when the first officer of the Enterprise offered to lick me to keep a handsy Ambassador off my ass, but here we are.”-Spock quickly finds that the new Ambassador on the Enterprise is hugely troublesome, not least of which because she won't take McCoy's "no" for an answer. He and McCoy must come to an agreement over how to protect McCoy from her advances--and thankfully for you, the reader, that agreement involves an overabundance of licking, touching, and sex.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [TAFKAB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB) for reading through and catching some of my more egregious typos. :)

_First Officer’s Log, Stardate 34554.5: We have just taken aboard Ambassador Cleil from her home planet Bruba’ae, a world known for its strategic location near the border of Federation and Klingon territory. The Federation has been courting Bruba’ae for many months out of concern that it may fall into Klingon possession or, more exactly, that the Klingons may destroy the relatively non-advanced race of ‘Ae people and commandeer their planet. They have no means of defending themselves against a Klingon attack, save for alliance with the Federation._

_Despite the obvious nature of their plight, they are clearly an irrational people. Their culture is certainly a fascinating one, steeped in tradition and spectacle, and as such they will not agree to ally themselves with the Federation until after their Ambassador has seen that we are not barbarians. Ambassador Cleil will remain on the Enterprise for five days, or until she sees fit to pass judgment upon us._

_The First Day_

Spock stepped into sickbay and frowned when he saw that no one was present. That was an egregious violation of protocol, and so he conducted a quick sweep of the bay only to find McCoy at his desk with his head in his hands, in clear distress.

“Doctor,” Spock said to draw the human’s attention.

McCoy jumped and looked around, almost guiltily. “Spock! You scared me.” He immediately scowled. “What are you doing skulking around my sickbay?”

“I have come to determine whether or not it is in order for the Ambassador’s tour.”

Impossibly, McCoy looked even more skittish. “You, uh, don’t need to do that. She’s already been and gone.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, curious. “Her tour does not begin for another 1.2 hours.”

“Well then I guess she gave herself a tour, okay? I’m not her keeper!”

Spock considered the irrational outburst carefully. He entered the office and allowed the door to close behind him. He could see clear signs of stress on the Doctor’s face and in the tension of his shoulders, and there was a scent in the air that was unfamiliar to Spock. It smelled of worry and anxiety along with McCoy’s usual antiseptic and earthy cologne, but also something else that Spock could not quite pinpoint. He resolved to give it further consideration, working on the problem in the back of his mind as he spoke.

“You appear unusually excitable, Doctor. Was there an incident during the Ambassador’s visit?”

“Incident? No, what are you talking about? Why do you think I’m excitable?” McCoy stood swiftly, shoulders tense and shaking. “You’re the one jumping to conclusions over nothing!”

Spock merely looked at him.

“Nothing happened!”

“...Doctor, it is my duty as first officer to see that the Ambassador’s visit is free of incident. If I must order you to divulge the events which took place, I will do so.”

McCoy deflated at that. “Jesus, it was really nothing. Just a little cultural misunderstanding.”

“Explain.”

“She… came on to me. A little aggressively.” He stopped looking at Spock. “Okay, a lot aggressively. But I got rid of her, so really nothing happened.”

The scent. With this additional information Spock recognized it as the tart scent of the ‘Ae Ambassador. Cleil must have left her mark. “You were assaulted,” Spock said.

“What? No, no, no. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then you engaged in consensual contact.”

“Uh, no.” McCoy looked confused, his mouth curling as his eyebrows drew together. “I’m not going to do that with an Ambassador from another world, not on a mission as important as this one.”

“Doctor, please do not take offense, but if you did not touch her consensually and you were not assaulted, then why is her scent so prominent on you?”

McCoy gaped. “Her...scent?”

“Yes.”

“That’s—holy shit, that’s just exactly what she was talking about.” McCoy ran a hand through his hair and sat down heavily. “She came in and everything seemed normal at first, but she just got more and more upset as I tried to show her around. We didn’t even get past the first biobed before she started tearing into me, asking how I wasn’t ashamed of myself wandering around without… someone’s scent. I didn’t understand what she meant.”

“Fascinating.”

McCoy looked at him sharply.

“There is a custom on Bruba’ae,” Spock clarified before McCoy could pick a fight. Although it would be mentally stimulating to argue with the Doctor, it was neither the time nor the place. “It is part of a strict hierarchical structure they work to maintain. Approximately twenty percent of the population is near the top of the hierarchy and is capable of giving commands and obtaining ownership over the remaining eighty percent. The Anthropological findings on this custom are sparse, however based on this incident I can infer that because you are only a Lieutenant Commander, Ambassador Cleil interpreted your singular scent as an insult to her rank.”

“...She tried to claim me!?” McCoy was up again, pacing around his office in short, jerky movements. “What the hell? That’s ridiculous!”

“Indeed. I, too, have noted that the Bruba’ae people are not the most rationally-minded. Nevertheless, what she did was understandable given her custom.”

“Understandable! She’s not on Bruba’ae anymore; she’s on a starship.”

“A starship she intends to evaluate for its backwardness. And, from her impromptu tour it appears that she has already encountered at least one unsophisticated custom to which we adhere.”

“We aren’t backwards. If anything, she is!”

“We cannot judge her culture by our standards.” Spock recognized that he had utterly failed to not start an argument with McCoy, and he attempted to diffuse the situation. “Regardless, I am certain that she will be understanding if we provide an explanation for your actions.”

McCoy grimaced at the idea, but he did agree—albeit begrudgingly. “You’re coming back here in an hour, right? I can explain it to her then.”

Spock nodded. “An acceptable suggestion. Now, please demonstrate that the sickbay is in proper order for the tour…”

The argument McCoy began next—that it was _his_ sickbay, goldarnit, and he knew it backwards and forwards, and inside and out, and better than Spock anyday—was much more refreshing.

*

Spock believed that the tour of the ship was going well. Ambassador Cleil appeared level-headed and curious about the ship without pushing her questions into uncomfortable territory. She made comments that did not require Spock to skirt the lines of confidentiality, yet still clearly belied that she hoped Bruba’ae would enter the Federation. All in all, it was quite successful.

Until they reached the sickbay.

The moment they entered McCoy held up his hand for them to wait and whispered a few commands to Nurse Chapel. Spock could feel Cleil stiffening in rage at his side as Chapel nodded and left the sickbay.

“Mr. Spock, Ambassador Cleil, how kind of you to grace me with your presence,” McCoy said. He seemed at ease, but Spock knew him well enough to recognize that the Doctor was nervous around Cleil.

She quickly proved that he had every right to be.

“What do you call this!” she exploded, throwing up her hands in disgust as she turned to Spock. “You allow him to address you when he is _naet’natu_?”

The unfamiliar word completely stumped the translator, and Spock knew that if he asked for an explanation he would only incense her further. “Doctor McCoy is the Chief Medical Officer aboard the Enterprise. His rank enables him to address me in any manner he sees fit.”

McCoy was the one who blinked at him in shock, but Cleil only scoffed. “He cannot be a medicine man. He has not even been claimed.” She turned to McCoy and her mouth curled in a mixture of distaste and pleasure. “Do not worry, little _naet_. I will claim you and you will take your place at my side.”

“Like hell,” McCoy said, and then winced. “I mean, I’m very sorry ma’am, but I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“What is to misunderstand?” She took a step forward and sniffed the air, baring her sharp teeth. “You do not have a bondmate, a lover, correct?”

“I, uh.” McCoy’s adrenaline spiked; Spock could smell it, and he knew that Cleil could as well.

“And you sit here in this room, playing as if you are safe when we both know that is impossible.”

“Now wait just a—”

“It is clear that you do not understand. You are in danger without a bondmate. You are lucky that I am the one to discover your affliction, and not someone who would harm you.” She stepped forward again. “I wish only to protect you. You are very beautiful; worthy of my shield.”

“Ma’am, listen,” McCoy tried again.

“You may not speak to me yet,” she growled. “I will mark you.”

Spock caught her wrist before she could touch McCoy. “You will not.”

There was a beat of silence in the tension of the moment as she narrowed her startling gold eyes at him. “You have no claim over him.”

“Nor do you.”

She seemed to consider this. In his hand, her arm twisted, and Spock knew suddenly that she could break his grip easily if she tried. But she did not try. “...Very well,” she said after a tense moment. “Perhaps this is not the time to stake my claim.”

Spock released her and she stepped away, utterly ignoring McCoy.

“You may continue the tour,” she said to Spock.

Spock looked at the Doctor, who looked back, frightened. With a nod, McCoy read his eyes and disappeared into his office.

Spock heard the door lock.

*

“She cornered me in the hallway!”

Spock looked up from his desk where he had been poring over every page of anthropological data on the Bruba’ae that he had access to, arching an eyebrow at McCoy. “Ambassador Cleil?”

“No, the sugar plum fairy. Yes, Ambassador Cleil!” McCoy began to pace around Spock’s quarters, lurching from one wall to the next. “She’s insane.”

Spock watched him pace a moment before pushing away from his desk, steepling his fingers. “...Your medical override to my door lock is only intended to be used in an emergency.”

“Well, what do you call this? She ripped my shirt!” McCoy stomped forward and jerked at his sleeve, which had been torn slightly at the shoulder.

Spock’s nostrils flared as he approached. He would have known the nature of Cleil’s intentions even without such visual cues. Her scent was everywhere on the Doctor, bleeding into his panic and his anxiety and the underlying masculine scent he always had. A bolt of rage spiked through Spock’s stomach, and he quickly quashed the feeling. It was unseemly. “How did you deter her?”

“I just ran,” McCoy said without shame. He leaned against Spock’s desk and sighed. “What am I supposed to do, though? She’s not going to just give up.”

“Obviously.” Spock looked at him, and then stood. He walked so that he was near McCoy, offering his presence in support for the Doctor. “...You may report this to me in my role as first officer, and I will file a report of the assault.”

“What? I can’t do that!”

Spock carefully kept his face impassive.

“Well, I can’t! Assaulting an officer means she’d be tossed in the brig, or returned to her planet. That means no report on how forward-thinking we are, and that means _no_ protection from the Klingons for her people. There’s billions of innocent people on that world. And, anyway.” He deflated. “It wasn’t like that, exactly. She just doesn’t understand.”

Spock nodded. He had expected the Doctor to place the needs of those on the planet above his own. “You may also involve the Captain and request a security detail accompany you for the remainder of the Ambassador’s stay.”

“No. Jesus Christ, no. I don’t want Jim knowing about this.” He looked at Spock in sudden horror. “Did you already record your log?”

“I have not.”

“Thank God.” McCoy relaxed. “Just leave this part out. It’s not that big a deal. I’ll just… deal with it. I’ll lock my office door and keep her out.”

“You will remain in your office for five days,” Spock said flatly.

“Yeah,” McCoy responded, challenging. “What of it?”

“You will not go to the mess hall, nor to the bridge, nor to the transporter room to perform your duty on away missions. You will not return to your quarters at any time. You will not step into the hallways. You will not even exit your office in the case of an emergency in sickbay.”

“What’s your point!?”

“That there is another option.”

McCoy froze. “If you mean just letting her have her way with me, you’re out of your mind.”

“That is not what I intended to imply.” Spock took in a small breath and let it out. “Rather, you could allow a superior officer to scent-mark you.”

McCoy stared at him.

Spock stared back.

After a moment, McCoy opened his mouth. He closed it again.

Spock did not waver his gaze.

“...Uh,” McCoy said.

“Doctor, in my examination of the Bruba’ae cultural files I have found that scent marking is a far more nuanced practice than I had originally believed. It is not merely a matter of hierarchy, but also of protection. Recall her disbelief that you could be a doctor. That is because on Bruba’ae doctors _must_ be owned _because_ they are viewed is incapable of protecting themselves.”

“Why’s that?” McCoy puffed up like an angry sehlat. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“No, you are not,” Spock said, and when McCoy grew even more enraged, he clarified, “Your first oath is to do no harm. It is the same on Bruba’ae.”

That deflated McCoy’s ire, and he frowned. “If doctors can’t protect themselves then that means they need an...owner. She must think I’m some sort of psychopath, capable of hurting people just for kicks.”

“Correctly deduced.”

“I guess that explains why there haven’t been any reports of her bothering other crew members.” He glanced at Spock and Spock confirmed with a nod. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “So she really might be just trying to help.”

“It is clear that you never wish to inflict harm upon anyone, but she may believe that your status as unbonded requires you to do so in order to protect yourself.”

McCoy smiled grimly. “How would she know whether or not I want to hurt people?”

“It is obvious to anyone who has ever met you.”

McCoy coughed and looked away. “...Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t just be…scent marked. What the hell does that even mean?”

“The exact procedure would depend on who would be claiming the right of ownership over you.”

“What do you mean?”

Spock considered how best to answer. “If they were a human, they would be required to expel bodily fluids upon you.”

“Ugh, why?” McCoy asked, shuddering.

“Humans pheromones are not particularly potent, relative to ‘Ae pheromones. While prolonged physical contact may be sufficient, it would take several days for the scent to accumulate. And as you have not engaged in prolonged physical contact with anyone on board this ship—”

“Stop, I know where this is going.” McCoy sighed and glared at Spock as though Spock had personally caused this to happen. “So it’s been a while, okay? That’s not my fault!”

“No,” Spock said carefully. He waited for McCoy’s breathing to approach its normal rhythm. “There are other options. There are several non-humans whose scent would be noticeable to Ambassador Cleil. Ensign Gaila, for example. Orion women have utter control over pheromone production, and it is likely that physical contact would be sufficient.”

“I don’t want to involve her in this; that’s ridiculous.”

Spock nodded. "Additionally, it is unclear if her lower rank would complicate matters. There is also myself.”

McCoy turned slowly to look at him. “What,” he said, not a question.

“Vulcans are descended from… cats. Or rather, a cat-like animal. We have retained scent glands which produce powerful pheromones that could potentially deter Ambassador Cleil from her advances.” Spock watched McCoy carefully.

McCoy almost seemed to consider the proposal for a moment, but then he shook his head violently. “You want to rub on me like a _cat_?”

“In a manner of—”

“Spock, no. I...I can’t. I’m going to go back to my original plan.” He pushed away from the desk and started for the door.

“You are going to sickbay?”

“Yeah, I need to clear my head.”

“I will escort you. Ambassador Cleil may be in the halls.”

“No.” McCoy held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll be quick about it. Look, I know you’re trying to help but this is _not_ what I signed up for with Starfleet.” His eyes were slightly rounded in reaction to the absurdity of the situation.

Spock frowned. “We cannot always predict the nature of our exploration.”

“No.” McCoy laughed bitterly. “We really can’t. I’ll… Thanks anyway. I’ll see you later.”

Spock watched him leave, frowning slightly.

*

_The Second Day_

“McCoy to bridge.”

The Captain answered the comm with a jovial smile, and Spock looked back to his scanner, confused by the Captain’s constant state of joy.

“Kirk here. How goes the battle, Bones?”

Instead of answering McCoy asked, “Is Spock there?”

Spock turned back to look instantly as he detected a faint tremor in McCoy’s voice. He raised an eyebrow at Kirk, who shrugged back.

“He’s here. Do you need him?”

“I’ve got something I need him to take a look at. Some, uh, chemicals. Mammalian chemicals that affect the behavior or physiology of others. Can you send him down?”

“...Sure, I’ll send him.”

“And tell him not to take all damn day!” McCoy said hurriedly before cutting the comm.

“Any idea what that’s all about?” Kirk asked him.

Spock hesitated. “The Doctor merely requires my opinion on an experiment he is conducting,” he said, which was not entirely untrue. McCoy was running an experiment to see if he could avoid Cleil or not. Data seemed to indicate he could not.

“All right, well you two have fun. Just be back home in time for supper.” Kirk smiled at what he apparently considered to be a joke.

Spock nodded and left Ensign Chekov at his post. As he rode the turbolift down, he considered the Doctor’s worried tone. He had spoken in a rushed manner, despite the apparent indifferent topic of conversation.

When Spock entered the sickbay, he saw why.

“You can’t go in there!” Chapel yanked at Cleil’s arm. “Are you listening to me?”

Cleil did something to the door lock that slid it open, and then grabbed Chapel by the arms. “You have no claim over him!” she screamed before tossing her away like a datachip.

Spock managed to catch her and Chapel gasped. “Mr. Spock! The Doctor is—!”

“I see,” Spock said as Cleil disappeared into the Doctor’s office. “Nurse, go to the laboratory and await further instruction.”

“But, Mr. Spock!”

“That is an order, Nurse!” He dropped her and ran to the office.

McCoy was there, behind his desk and brandishing a hypo as Cleil advanced. “Now listen,” he said calmly. “I don’t want to use this, but I will if I have to.”

Cleil only growled—actually growled, low in her throat as she leapt onto the desk and swiped at McCoy. McCoy teetered back, hitting the wall with a gasp.

Spock rounded the desk in four quick strides and grabbed the hypo from McCoy’s hand. “Enough,” he said, and then he did the only logical thing. He took McCoy’s chin in his hand and turned his surprised face to the side, licking a swath up his skin.

He caught a bit of shirt collar with his tongue, and then he licked up McCoy’s neck, feeling the beat of the human’s pulse frantic in his throat. His tongue scraped against McCoy’s stubble—unshaven from yesterday—and over his temple to land at his hairline. McCoy was shuddering when he finally finished, utterly silent, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

Spock turned to glare flatly at the Ambassador. “You have no claim over him,” he said, echoing her earlier words.

She bared her teeth and her back arched. “Nor do you! I am no fool; I know a ruse when I see one! If you were his protector he would not have needed to threaten me. You leave him to defend himself!”

The hypo. Spock looked to the ground where it lay. He could not recall dropping it. “Yet it was I who removed the weapon from his hand,” he argued.

“It’s not a weapon,” McCoy said.

Spock realized he was still holding McCoy’s face. He was sure McCoy would wish for him to drop his hand but was uncertain how Cleil would interpret such a gesture. He stayed where he was.

Cleil sat up straighter. “You do not speak—!”

“Speak,” Spock interrupted her. “Tell us what you have to say.”

McCoy looked at him nervously and seemed to draw strength from Spock's eyes. He stood straighter in Spock’s grasp, and although Spock was holding him he no longer felt like he had to protect the frail doctor. “It was a sedative. It would have knocked you out for maybe ten minutes, nothing more.”

“Then you were never in any danger. Dr. McCoy is a medical man, and would not harm anyone.”

She wavered, but before she could decide whether to believe them or not the office door slid open and four red shirts trampled in. Spock sighed at the sight—Chapel had called security. Given what she had seen it was a rational decision, but it was not optimal for their interaction.

“Mr. Spock?” the lead Lieutenant asked, her gaze skittering over the scene as she rested her hand on the butt of her phaser. “Everything all right here?”

“Yes, the situation is under control.” Only then did Spock drop his hand, folding it behind his back into a fist. “The Ambassador was here for a consult, and is now leaving.”

Ambassador Cleil narrowed her eyes at him, but then looked to the security officers. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air, no doubt determining who belonged to who. “...This is not over,” she said after a moment. She slipped from the desk and stood straight again, high on the balls of her feet. “If you wish to claim your property, I suggest you do so swiftly.”

She departed gracefully, her head held high.

“You are all dismissed,” Spock said to the security officers. The Lieutenant hesitated, but they did leave. Only then did McCoy relax.

He slumped into his chair and buried his head in his hands. “...Okay, so my plan didn’t work.”

“Obviously.”

McCoy jerked his head up and Spock regretted his choice of words. He could see wetness in the Doctor’s eyes. “Do you ever stop?”

“Doctor, I meant no offense. I was merely agreeing with your assessment of the situation.”

“Ha, that’s a first, you agreeing with me.”

“I agree with you often.”

“No you don’t! You’re disagreeing with me right now!” McCoy groaned. “Fuck, what am I going to do?”

Spock watched him. The altercation with Ambassador Cleil had clearly left him shaken, and Spock did not wish to see McCoy harmed any further. “...My duties may be performed from the medical laboratory,” he said carefully, raising his eyebrow as McCoy looked up at him in confusion. “I will remain here until the completion of our duty shift, and then we will return to my quarters.”

“Where you’ll…” McCoy seemed incapable of finishing that sentence.

Spock said for him, “Where together we will find an alternate solution.”

McCoy nodded and looked back at his desk, the picture of a defeated man.

*

Spock requested that Mr. Scott give Cleil a long tour of the engine room, and she did not attempt to return to sickbay again. After their shift had ended, McCoy unenthusiastically followed Spock back to his quarters.

“I will be brief,” Spock said, and took off his shirt.

“Whoa, what are you doing!”

Spock looked at him, holding his blue uniform shirt in one hand. He did not understand McCoy’s trepidation. He was not yet even partially undressed, as he still had his black thermal undershirt on. “The most potent scent glands on a Vulcan are located at the groin, beneath the arm, and behind the ear.”

“Just keep your pants on,” McCoy said, wide-eyed.

“...I intend to.”

“And your shirt!” McCoy said hastily as Spock reached for the hem.

Spock dropped his arms. “Doctor, what would you have me do? You are of course aware that you will also need to remove your clothing.”

“What? You didn’t say that!”

“What did you imagine would happen?”

McCoy shifted from one foot to the other, glancing aside, and then back. “C’mon Spock, work with me here.”

“I am attempting to do so. I believe it is you who is not working with me.” Spock sighed and folded his shirt on his desk before placing his hands on his hips as he considered. “Doctor, I have provided you with all available options known to me, and none meet with your satisfaction. As first officer it is my duty to protect you from harm. If you cannot make a decision about what to do, I will be forced to contact the Captain and assign a security detail to protect you.”

“No, no, don’t do that.” McCoy groaned. “...Really, Spock? I know you’re a walking box of circuitry, but this doesn’t feel… awkward to you?”

“There is no awkwardness in attending to my duty. I admit,” he said with reticence. “That this is a unique case. However, that does not change how I approach it.”

McCoy looked at him, a line of confusion prominent at his brow. After a moment, he looked away again. “My clothes stay on. Just...mark them, or whatever. With your...face.”

The compromise was not optimal, but Spock could see that McCoy would not agree to anything else. He also knew that following through on his threat to appoint a security detail could ruin his working relationship with the Doctor, which he did not wish to do. Spock nodded. “Acceptable.”

He stepped forward and set his hands on McCoy’s shoulders. McCoy jumped at the contact before stilling. Spock could see him physically biting his tongue. Spock worked without delay, leaning forward to rub the node in his neck against McCoy’s. He could smell the Earth-tones of McCoy’s cologne, and the salty scent of sweat and nervousness, and the dusty washing powder he had used in his hair. McCoy held very still as Spock rubbed against him, bumping the side of his face against McCoy’s stubble.

It took some time to override McCoy’s scent, and then Spock switched to the other side. He took McCoy’s head in his hands to do so, and hummed in surprise when he realized that some of his scent was already here.

Of course. He had licked him.

It was interesting to contemplate McCoy sitting in his office, saliva drying at his cheek. Spock inhaled the scent of himself and brushed against McCoy. He enjoyed the way their smells mingled, otherworldly and alien.

He did not realize he had dropped his hands to McCoy’s biceps and was gripping him tightly until he felt McCoy cup his elbows. “...How long is this going to take?”

“I am nearly finished here,” Spock said. He dropped his arms further and took McCoy’s hands into his own, raising them to his neck. “Touch me to acquire my scent on your hands.”

McCoy looked at him like he was crazy. “I’m not—”

“You have touched me many times in precisely this spot to check for injury. Why should this time be different?”

McCoy hardened at his words and pressed the flats of his palm just behind Spock’s ears. It made Spock’s skin tingle as McCoy unintentionally stimulated an erogenous zone. His hands rubbed at Spock briefly before pulling away.

Spock caught him before he could and turned his face to McCoy’s right hand, inhaling deeply.

McCoy choked. “Jesus, Spock. What’re you doing?”

“My scent is not yet prominent.” He pressed McCoy’s hands back and directed them to rub more firmly. It was gratifying to feel the rough slide of McCoy’s fingers against the shell of his ear, and Spock attempted to ignore the feeling. Pleasure was not part of his duty.

After a few more minutes Spock pulled away and smelled him again, surprised. He could still detect the worry and cologne, but beneath his own scent the Doctor’s blood had changed. There was a faint hint of arousal there, and it burned at Spock’s belly. He pushed aside the realization for contemplation later.

“Well?” McCoy asked thickly. “Good enough?”

“I am not certain,” Spock admitted. “I believe Ambassador Cleil’s sense of smell is superior to my own. She may be able to pinpoint the precise location of my scent and recognize that I have not actually claimed you.”

“Well, it’ll have to do.” McCoy took back his hands and smoothed them over his shirt.

Spock made a sound of frustration as McCoy wiped away their hard work. “Doctor, you must be careful.”

McCoy frowned. “It-it’s fine,” he said. He took a step back. “I’ll just—”

“We are not yet finished.”

Spock rubbed his own hands against his neck then, gathering as much of his scent as he could. He could feel it leaking out of him now, increasingly thick with the onset of his own arousal. He was glad that McCoy’s senses were not sophisticated enough to pick up the subtle variations. When his hands were coated, he reached forward. He telegraphed his moves as he pushed McCoy’s shirt up and rubbed at his belly.

McCoy still jerked in surprise before stilling. “...This is ridiculous.”

“What is, is,” Spock said. He smoothed the fine hairs on McCoy’s stomach and then pushed up, getting as much of himself onto McCoy as he could. He touched McCoy’s chest and accidentally brushed a nipple.

McCoy hissed at the contact and pulled away, shoving Spock off. “That’s enough. If that’s not enough, nothing will be.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Not so. There is still much that we—”

“It’s enough,” McCoy said in a tone that brooked no argument.

“...Very well,” Spock said. “Further contact will layer the scent, and it will be necessary to reapply. You should return tomorrow morning before our duty shift.”

“Great,” McCoy said in a way that implied he felt it was the opposite of great. “See you then.”

He pushed past Spock and Spock blinked in surprise as the air wafted between them. McCoy’s tone of voice and body language implied he was furious, but the smell that hit him was anything but. McCoy was aroused. Spock knew if he looked he would see that McCoy was erect.

He did not look, but he found himself preoccupied with the thought as he meditated later. It was difficult to focus when his mind continued to revert back to the image of McCoy stalking the halls, Spock’s scent clinging to his skin.

*

_The Third Day_

McCoy was late arriving in Spock’s quarters.

He was so late, in fact, that Spock calculated that they would not have sufficient time to engage in the requisite scent application before their duty shifts began.

“Computer, locate Doctor McCoy.”

“Doctor McCoy is in his quarters.”

Spock stood and swiftly walked there. He began the journey battling annoyance over McCoy’s immaturity in not returning, but by the end he was concerned that perhaps the Ambassador had found McCoy. He reached McCoy’s quarters twice as fast as he normally did just as McCoy was stepping out.

“Spock—!” McCoy grunted as Spock crowded him back into his quarters.

The door slid shut behind them. “Where is she?”

“She’s not here.” McCoy glared at him. “What are you doing?”

Spock wrinkled his nose. “What have you done to yourself?”

McCoy smelled terrible. His cologne—normally delicately applied to accent his natural scent—was all over him. He smelled as though he had dropped the bottle onto his head. In fact… Spock took a step forward, inhaling deeply as his eyes searched McCoy’s suspicious features. His skin was still slightly damp.

“Why did you attempt to cover my scent?”

“I, uh.” McCoy winced. “It was just… I just thought…” He trailed off helplessly.

Spock approached him and buried his nose in McCoy’s neck, feeling the human jump in surprise. He sought out the answer and found it: beneath the thick, almost overpowering force of cologne, the Ambassador’s scent lingered.

Spock pulled away, fury building in his gut. “She assaulted you in your own quarters!”

“No! Spock, no that’s not what happened.” McCoy grabbed him and Spock blinked in surprise, his anger dissipating instantly as he realized he was being foolish. “She… came across me in the hallway when I was on my way over this morning. She said she could smell that you hadn’t done your duty. No clue what that means, but I booked it straight home. I, uh…” McCoy bit his lip, pulling the pink flesh taut beneath his teeth. “I knew you’d smell her on me and so I was going to take a shower, but then I thought _that_ would be suspicious so I put on extra cologne instead. I guess it wasn’t enough.”

“The amount of cologne you are wearing is horrendous enough, but cannot fully subsume the underlying scent.” Spock frowned at him. “You intended to keep this from me? What did you believe would occur? If my initial marking was insufficient to deter her, all subsequent markings would be as well.”

“Well, I didn’t think that far ahead!” McCoy jerked away and began pacing around his quarters, wafting the dizzying odor of his cologne everywhere. Spock attempted to hold his breath. “I thought I would hide out, okay? Drown myself in cologne and fix the lock on my office door and just hope for the best.”

“That is not logical.”

“Spock, if you aren’t going to help then get out.”

Spock stopped at McCoy’s cold tone. This was clearly affecting him very deeply. “I am here to help,” Spock said carefully. “I would not have come here if I did not intend to assist you.”

McCoy sighed. “Fine. So what’s the plan?”

“I will… consider our options. In the meantime, please take a shower.” He attempted to breathe through his mouth. “The smell is highly distracting.”

McCoy chuckled and then quickly sobered. “You’re just going to hang out here? We’ll be late for shift.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Without telling Jim.”

“Yes,” Spock said flatly. “I will not inform the Captain against your wishes unless I believe there is an immediate danger.”

McCoy seemed to take him at his word. He gathered up a change of clothes and went into the bathroom. When he was gone, Spock turned up the recirculation to air out the place and sat down at McCoy’s desk, thinking.

The main difficulty was that he could not arrive at a logical conclusion when he lacked the surety to trust all of his inputs. He knew only the contours of the problem. He did not know if the Ambassador had disbelieved his attempt to scent mark McCoy because it was a weak mark, or because of his species, or because no bodily fluids had been exchanged, or for a reason he could not even comprehend. She had not given him much to work with.

However, he knew he had to try harder. He could not allow the Doctor to rebuff his attempts to fully help again. The Ambassador seemed content to play cat and mouse for the moment, but Spock knew that as they approached the end of her stay she would become more serious. She was quite strong, and could easily hurt the Doctor if she wished. And she may very well wish to if she interpreted McCoy’s rejection as a slight against her. If she cornered him in a private place, when Spock could not reach them, then McCoy could be critically injured.

He needed to inform the Captain. McCoy needed a security force.

Spock depressed the comm system. “Spock to Captain Kirk.”

After a moment Kirk answered, shirtless and frowning. “Spock? What are you doing calling from McCoy’s quarters?”

Spock had not considered this. “I must inform you…” he began, only to stop. He had sworn to McCoy that he would not reveal this to the Captain. He felt shame as he contemplated breaking his promise.

“...Yes?” Kirk prompted.

He could not betray McCoy's trust. “The Doctor has been affected by a parasite,” Spock said. “And will be unable to attend to his normal duties.”

“Oh? Did he say he was sick?”

“As usual, Dr. McCoy does not wish to acknowledge his own difficulties.”

Kirk smiled and pulled on his gold shirt. “Well, tell him to get some rest. Make it an order if you have to, and sign it with love from me as well. What’s he doing now? Did you knock him out?”

“No.” Spock recoiled slightly from the idea. “He is… here. I will make certain that he rests, Captain.”

“Good.” Kirk’s eyes seemed oddly bright. “And you?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“Are you also sick?” His smile quivered at the corner.

“I am not. I will attend to my duties; however, I may be…late.”

“Got an estimate for me on just how late you’ll be?”

“It will depend on the level of Dr. McCoy’s recalcitrance.”

“Ah.” Kirk smiled at him knowingly, although Spock had no idea what he thought he knew. “I see. Well, McCoy can be a bit of a hard ass, but you’ll bring him around won’t you Spock?”

“Captain…”

Kirk merely laughed. “I’ll see you on the bridge. Kirk out.”

Spock frowned at the blank screen, wondering what had just occurred.

McCoy chose that moment to step from the shower. He was dressed again and scrubbing at his damp hair with a towel. He had apparently decided to indulge in a water shower. Spock could see a small droplet bead at his temple, and he imagined licking it off.

“So what’s the plan?” McCoy seemed rejuvenated after his shower. “I was thinking, we could go find some planet and beam me down for an away mission. Then just lose me like you normally do and come find me again in a week.”

Spock raised his eyebrow. “There are many flaws with that plan.”

“Yeah.” McCoy sat down across from him. “I know. So what’s the real plan?”

Spock steepled his fingers. “I have a theory,” Spock said, and then paused.

“...Yeah? Go on, out with it.”

“I believe that our problem is twofold. First, we did not apply my scent to your body extensively enough to fool the Ambassador. She likely realized it was only a surface application to the face and hands. Second, it may be that my scent is not as potent as I had first assumed.”

McCoy sighed deeply. “So how do we fix that?”

“You must accept my offer to scent mark the entirety of your body. And,” he hesitated for less than a second. “You must allow me to lick you.”

McCoy stared at him. “Lick me.”

“Yes.”

“Lick. Like with your tongue. Lick me.”

“Yes.” Spock frowned. “Where does your confusion lie?”

McCoy sat back in his chair and chuckled. He crossed his arms over his chest and chuckled some more, deep throaty laughs that were equal parts incredulous and panicked. “Spock, I never thought I’d live to see the day when the first officer of the Enterprise offered to lick me to keep a handsy Ambassador off my ass, but here we are.”

“As I have already done so once, this should not come as a surprise. That encounter with the Ambassador is the only one which ended without a direct show of force or… speed.”

“Yeah, so I ran away a few times.” McCoy puffed up.

“It is not an insult. Logically when faced with a more physically powerful adversary you should flee.” Impossibly, McCoy grew more incensed. Spock hastened to focus him again. “What is your answer to my proposal, Doctor?”

McCoy looked pained. “...This is a really shitty situation.”

“Indeed,” Spock agreed.

McCoy smiled weakly. “I guess you really do agree with me sometimes. Alright, fine. Let’s just get this over with. How do you want m—uh, how do you want to do this?”

Spock stood and removed both of his shirts at once. “Remove your clothing and lie on the bed.”

McCoy gaped at him and then shut his mouth with a loud click. “...You’re really not joking.”

“I never joke,” Spock said seriously.

Hesitantly, McCoy stood. He tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, slowly extricating first one arm, and then the other. He shifted the shirt around awkwardly as his hands worked down his body, and then he pushed it up and over his head. All in all, the slowest way to possibly remove a shirt other than by individually de-threading it. He stood there bare chested and not looking at Spock as he scrubbed a hand over his stomach, and Spock realized he had never seen the Doctor shirtless before.

It should not have been so odd. He and McCoy had changed nearby many times for missions, and McCoy often wore shirts with low necklines due to his appreciation for disco fashion, so truly Spock _had_ seen all of this. Just not all at once and not when McCoy could barely look at him. He studied McCoy quickly: the slopes of his ribs, his taut stomach, his slight curls of chest hair, and his rosy nipples. McCoy was fit enough for the perils of space travel, but he also had a frailty about him that incited Spock’s instinct to protect. He suppressed the instinct, as it was not logical to follow such base drives.

He focused on his own clothing, attempting to give McCoy privacy in the small room. He removed his boots, and then pants and socks and underwear before folding them all onto McCoy’s desk. McCoy had stalled with his boxers still on, and so Spock looked at him.

He felt no shame in nakedness, but he recognized all the markers of shame in the Doctor. He was curled in on himself, still holding his pants in front of his body and staring at the floor.

“Doctor,” Spock said, but he had no real follow up to that and so he stopped, letting the word hang in the air.

McCoy grimaced. “What?” he asked guiltily.

“Would you prefer I start an argument with you?”

McCoy laughed in relief. “Honestly, yes.”

“Very well. I have noted, as of late, a .4% decrease in sickbay efficiency.”

McCoy instantly took the bait. “Okay, first of all point-four-percent is nothing. You can’t even measure to that level of detail. The margin of error is greater than point-four-percent! Second, my sickbay is just as efficient as ever if not _more_ so.” He set aside his pants and pulled off his socks, still grumbling. “Where the hell do you even get off, citing a _point-four-percent_ decrease like that’s a real thing?”

“The efficiency of the sickbay is measured in many ways, as you well know. Rates of infection, loss of supplies, unnecessary expenditure, and energy use are all accounted for.”

“But that’s—that’s the equivalent of dropping one damned sponge!”

“Three-quarters of a sponge,” Spock said.

McCoy barked out a laugh. “You’ve got some nerve,” he said, taking off his underwear and dropping them to the floor. “Trying to get me riled up with that pitiful attempt.”

Spock gestured to the bed and McCoy walked there with little of his earlier awkwardness. “I believe my attempt at inciting an argument was wholly successful.”

“How do you figure that?” McCoy sat down on the bed.

Spock pushed him so he was lying down on his back instead. “Your heart rate increased eight percent, and there was a precipitous jump in colorful language usage.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You swore.” Spock was sitting on the edge of the bed now, looking down at McCoy. McCoy’s breathing rate had increased steadily as Spock had maneuvered him. Spock could feel it from where his hand rested on McCoy’s chest.

“I’ve got every right to swear. Doesn’t mean I’m in a bad mood. I swear when I’m happy.”

“Of course,” Spock agreed.

“I’ve got a swear for every occasion,” he groused. “Happy, sad, mad, bar mitzvahs even.”

“I am aware.”

McCoy wiggled around on the bed. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Spock did not ask after the emotion that accompanied that expletive. Instead, he leaned in and placed his lips to McCoy’s cheek. McCoy jerked at the contact and Spock opened his mouth, flicking out his tongue.

McCoy had shaved. That was the first thing Spock noticed. An old-style shave with a blade, judging by the evidence. The smooth glide of his skin, almost rubbery, was a stark and thrilling counterpoint to his stubble from earlier. He hadn’t used aftershave, but Spock could smell the clean scent of face cream. He inhaled deeply, cataloging the work ahead of him and mentally mapping an efficient plan of attack. He curled his tongue around McCoy’s high cheekbone and then down, licking away the cream smell until he could only taste the skin beneath. He turned to get a better angle at McCoy’s jaw line, mouthing along there. McCoy had missed shaving a tiny spot of beard, perhaps four whiskers in the shadow of his neck, and Spock spent a long time focusing on that spot as McCoy held very still beneath him.

He could feel McCoy gulping as he traveled lower to mouth against the apple in his throat. He let his teeth drag as he breathed out, getting his saliva and hot breath on McCoy’s skin. McCoy smelled too clean, and Spock resolved to dirty him.

Spock took his time, careful to lap away each molecule of soap and replace it with himself. McCoy’s shoulders were taut under his mouth, and then Spock trailed his tongue over McCoy’s wiry chest hair. He could taste oils there—a few scant breaths of McCoy’s natural odor where he had missed cleaning himself thoroughly. He mouthed at McCoy’s pink nipples, soaking them, and McCoy hissed and his arm twitched. He could see McCoy struggling not to push him away. He flattened his tongue as the right nipple hardened against it and then pulled back, watching curiously when it perked up further as the evaporation of his saliva wicked the heat away.

McCoy’s reactions were gratifying, and somewhat distracting. His stomach was quivering by the time Spock reached it, and the long draws of his tongue only added to the motion. He could smell the burn of McCoy’s early arousal here, and although McCoy was not erect he still smelled of it. Spock wondered if he had masturbated yesterday or perhaps this morning—or perhaps even in the shower, as Spock sat just on the other side of the door. The idea thrilled him unexpectedly.

Regardless, he could not taste it, no matter how hard he searched for it with his tongue, and so he surrendered to the inevitable and encouraged McCoy to turn over. He went somewhat enthusiastically and let out a sigh of apparent relief when he settled, clearly finding it easier to submit when he didn’t have to look at Spock.

Spock readjusted himself so that he was kneeling with his thigh pressed against McCoy’s right hip, studying his back. His mouth was slightly dry, and so he applied his face and neck instead. He rubbed his scent gland against McCoy’s spine and the breadth of his shoulders, then trailed his lips down, breathing out more hot air that made McCoy’s skin pebble with goosebumps. The reaction was fascinating, and Spock encouraged it again on McCoy’s arms as he played with the hairs there with face and mouth and tongue.

McCoy was shaking slightly as Spock returned to the small of his back. Here, he could sense more of McCoy’s natural odor, pooling in the dimples beside his spine. He lapped at the spots, replacing the scent with his own and feeling a strangely erotic thrill as he did so. He attempted to ignore the feeling, but it persisted as he shimmied down McCoy’s body and straddled his right calf, rubbing to apply scent from the glands at his groin.

He decided it was not logical to deny the reactions of his own body, although he did work to hide them from McCoy. His sheath had begun producing fluids, anticipating sex although Spock knew none was forthcoming. It strained him to keep his cock inside his body as he cupped McCoy’s round buttocks with his hands, licking at the skin through the spaces between his fingers.

McCoy jumped. “Spock,” he said, his hesitant voice cutting like a knife through the silence that had engulfed them.

“I have almost finished,” Spock said kindly. He spread apart McCoy’s cheeks and nosed his way in, trailing out his tongue as McCoy jerked again.

“Spock,” he said again, his voice high and thready. “Are you—?”

Spock tongued the little hole, wiping away the soap, and then trailed down to the back of McCoy’s thigh. It was tense with McCoy’s effort to hold himself still, and Spock soothed it with his palm before applying his lips. He gently bent first one leg, then the other, sucking McCoy’s toes into his mouth and curling his tongue around the tiny digits. McCoy hissed as he did it, and then shuddered as Spock flattened his tongue against the pads of his feet. That seemed to tickle, and so Spock kept his touch firm rather than teasing.

Finally, he could detect only the barest hint of soap still clinging to McCoy. The rest of the human’s scent was overpowered with his own, the scent of a fertile Vulcan male staking his claim. He released McCoy’s leg and brushed his fingers over the skin of his thigh, biting at his lower lip.

He could also smell McCoy’s full arousal.

He had tried to ignore it, as it only added to his own difficulty in restricting his erection. But he could hear the rush of blood in McCoy’s veins, smell the salty and viscous semen pooling inside of him. His arousal was masculine and heady, and as Spock watched McCoy shifted, thrusting once, aborted, against the sheets.

“...Are you done?” McCoy asked grumpily.

“There is one final task.”

Spock grasped his hip and rolled him over. McCoy looked straight at him, his mouth set in a determined line as if he were daring Spock to make fun of him. Spock did not intend to do so. Instead, he reached out and grasped McCoy’s erection.

“Fuck—Jesus Spock!”

“I will be brief.” Spock held him still with one hand and with the other he pinched at McCoy’s foreskin, drawing it between thumb and forefinger and rolling it carefully to encourage fluid production. His own cock, deep in his sheath, throbbed in sympathy as McCoy’s hips jolted upwards.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“It is also necessary for your scent to be present on my person,” Spock said. It seemed logical when he said it out loud like that. He carefully released McCoy’s foreskin and McCoy breathed a sigh of relief and torment as it slowly retracted and a single pearly bead of precome formed at his head. Spock swiped it up with his thumb, earning another shudder from the doctor.

Spock smeared the droplet on his forehead and over his left cheek, and then pressed his thumb against his lips. He wanted to taste it, taste McCoy’s essence and his salt, but he did not. He rubbed it over his lips and forced himself not to lick away the tingling sensation. When he looked up, McCoy was staring at him, open-mouthed.

“...Okay,” McCoy said after a moment.

“I believe my scent has nearly subsumed your own,” Spock said. He wished to tell McCoy of his fantasies, of his desire to place McCoy into his mouth, to kiss him, to touch his hands. But he did not. Now was not the time; now was the time to do his duty. “Do you require additional assistance?”

“No.” McCoy rolled to his side and off the bed, waddling over to pick up his clothes. “That was great,” he said flatly. “Thanks for your help. You can go now.”

“You should not bathe or wash any part of yourself that is not required for medical purposes.” Spock rose. He sensed that McCoy was upset, but he did not know what to do about his discomfort. “You must also come to my quarters at the end of your duty shift for an additional application.”

“Fine,” McCoy said stiffly. He had forced his erection into his underwear and pants. Spock did not understand why he didn’t just relieve himself. The external penis appeared to be an enormous, illogical hassle. McCoy turned to look at him, frowning. “Goodbye, Spock.”

With a jolt, Spock realized he was not dressed. He clothed himself hurriedly and left with one additional nod in the Doctor’s direction. McCoy seemed not to see him, but Spock was certain he had.

*

Spock found himself preoccupied throughout the day. He would turn his head and catch a whiff of McCoy’s scent on his cheek and be lost in thoughts of the Doctor beneath him, twitching and gasping and aroused. His sheath did not cease producing fluids, regardless of his attempts to assert control over his bodily functions. He drank more water that day than he usually did. He reasoned that he would need to be hydrated to encourage saliva production later, anyway.

He sat through a meeting with Ambassador Cleil where she grilled Captain Kirk about the aid the Federation gave during natural disasters. She glared openly at Spock the whole time, her nostrils flared as he looked back, nonplussed. He drank his water with one eyebrow raised.

It was after shift and he was finishing up a report in his quarters when McCoy entered, already in a bad mood.

“Spock, I can’t just not bathe for the next three days.”

Spock did not acknowledge his statement. “Were you approached by Ambassador Cleil today?” he asked without looking up from his datapadd.

“No, but that’s not the point.” McCoy still appeared focused on the bathing situation. “I need to take a shower everyday, or I don’t feel like myself. I’m already dreading trying to wake up tomorrow without one.”

“Very well.” Spock finally looked up, vindicated at McCoy’s look of shock in response to his agreement. “Tonight, I will scent mark you here, and tomorrow after your shower I will visit you in your quarters. That will reduce the amount of time you spend without being marked.”

“Huh. Logical.”

Spock raised his brow. “I endeavor always to be so.” He frowned, sniffing the air. “...You already bathed.”

McCoy shifted guiltily. “You can tell from way over there?” He chuckled nervously. “Uh, no I didn’t. I had to scrub up once and then I washed my face before coming here, but that’s it.”

“I was not aware that any surgery was performed today.”

“We ran a drill.” McCoy smirked. “The first officer was getting on my case about decreased efficiency.”

Spock frowned. He stood up and folded his arms behind his back. “You took a grave risk.”

“It worked out fine. Ambassador Cleil didn’t approach me even once today. Although she did stand at the end of the hall and glare at me, which was damned disconcerting.”

“Hm.” Spock felt strange. He realized after a moment that he was disappointed that McCoy was still dressed. “Regardless, I must replace the scent.”

He approached McCoy steadily and McCoy took a step back before steeling. “Shouldn’t I take off my clothes first?” he asked, laughing a little as though he were joking.

Perhaps he was attempting to diffuse the tension. Spock did feel tense, but it was a result of his desire to touch and feel and mark McCoy, not because of any awkwardness. “You were quite inefficient in your efforts this morning. I will assist you.”

McCoy’s smile dissipated. “Now wait a minute—”

Spock listened to McCoy’s huff of distaste, slightly muffled by cloth, as he quickly stripped McCoy of his shirt. McCoy’s fight appeared to be mostly for show. Spock pressed against him, breathing the scent of his soapy face as McCoy huffed again, clearly annoyed.

“Just get on with it.”

“I must locate which areas require the most attention,” Spock hedged as he worked his way around, inhaling deeply and attempting to locate McCoy’s natural odor.

McCoy released an explosive sigh. “There’s no way you could speed this up?”

Spock licked the junction of McCoy’s chin and neck and insinuated one leg between McCoy’s, mingling the production of pheromones at their groins. “If you wish, I could expel a different bodily fluid that contains a more potent concentration of pheromones. Many animals recognize the scent of urine as a marker of territory and ownership, for example.”

“I’m not going to let you pee on me until at least the fourth date.”

That statement had clearly been intended as a joke, and Spock flattened his lips in response. “It was merely a suggestion.” He returned to his work.

McCoy’s head and arms were completely devoid of his scent, possessing only the memory of antiseptic wash. Spock hummed, dropping to his knees as he sniffed. McCoy jumped again, looking down at him incredulously. But Spock ignored his look, instead helping him out of his boots and then unzipping his black uniform pants. McCoy didn’t argue as Spock directed him to step out of both pants and underwear simultaneously.

Then he was nude, and Spock stood to remove his own clothes. He struggled before calming himself, forcing his hands to work methodically. He felt rushed without reason, thinking that he should have worn a robe. It would have made the process go more quickly if he could have simply flipped one open. As it was, he wasted precious seconds dropping his shirts and pants and all the rest of his clothes to the floor, not bothering to fold them neatly this time.

He did not want to delay any further.

“You’re leaving a mess for yourself,” McCoy said, sounding uncertain.

“It is no matter.” Spock picked up his right arm and licked him from elbow to shoulder and back down, suckling at the papery skin at his joint.

“...So you can tell just exactly where the scent has rubbed off?”

“Yes.” Spock talked between laps of his tongue, spreading the saliva that was now thick in his mouth. Consuming excess water had been a productive course of action. “The scent is still strong in several areas, but completely absent in others. Such a haphazard application would likely incite the ire of Ambassador Cleil.”

“Right,” McCoy said. His eyes were unfocused as Spock approached his broad hand.

It was shaking slightly, a reaction Spock had never seen in McCoy before. As a surgeon, he was renowned for his steady hands. But now they quivered in Spock’s grip and under his tongue as he took the fingers into his mouth one at a time, sucking them gently to feel the bends of the digits, the rough callouses from hard work. McCoy tasted salty here, and the hard beds of his nails tickled at Spock’s mouth and made his throat jump with desire.

McCoy hissed. “...You didn’t do that last time.”

Spock let the little finger trail from his mouth and picked up McCoy’s other arm. “During our last encounter you still retained some scent here from touching my neck.” As he said it, he realized he couldn’t remember if that were true or not. He decided that, logically, it had to be. He would not have ignored McCoy’s hands otherwise. They were far too enticing.

“Uh-huh,” McCoy said. He shifted uncomfortably and blurted out, “Wouldn’t this be easier lying down?”

“Unnecessary.” The bed was too far away; getting there would take too much time, and would mean Spock would have to give up McCoy’s wrist bone. He did not wish to do that. It fit into his mouth as though it had been made for him.

He could smell and see McCoy’s burgeoning arousal. It seemed to come over him more quickly during this encounter, and Spock slotted his gaze downward to watch McCoy’s cock gradually engorge. It filled and lifted from his body, stretching the skin and revealing the rosy pink head. The look of it was so alien and strange to Spock, but the scent was familiar. Sex smelled the same throughout the universe. The anticipation of it wetted Spock’s sheath, beginning a slow burn in his belly.

McCoy was shifting from foot to foot, eyes skittering around the room. Spock began to move towards his face, intending to inform McCoy that his work was nearly over.

“Doctor—”

“It’s an autonomic response!” McCoy hissed.

Spock stopped and stared at him. McCoy was looking back angrily, his tone and face challenging. “I am aware,” Spock replied evenly.

“What do you know? You can’t even get hard. I bet no Vulcan ever had to deal with a spontaneous erection.”

“On the contrary. Vulcan males achieve tumescence internally first, and then the erection exits the sheath. Before the mental discipline to contain it is mastered many young Vulcans struggle to avoid erection.”

McCoy’s mouth had fallen open, and his eyes appeared glassy. “...Really?”

“I do not lie,” Spock said. He took McCoy’s face in his hands and licked him.

McCoy jolted and grumbled at him as he laved at his face. His stubble had grown in during the day, and it was rough and textured under Spock’s mouth. He sucked at it, abrading his lips and leaving them tingling. McCoy was shaking by the time he knelt down.

“What’re you…?”

“Your scent,” Spock said simply. He knew he would not have been able to say anything further.

He pressed his face against the crease of McCoy’s thigh and inhaled deeply. The skin was velvet-soft there, awash with a thin sheen of sweat and the aroma of McCoy’s arousal. With his nose to McCoy’s groin he could practically taste the pheromones pouring off of him in thick and heavy waves, screaming his sexual availability to anyone who was listening.

Spock was listening.

He was listening very hard.

He cupped McCoy’s erection in his hand and turned his face to it, mouthing along the trunk of it. McCoy hissed and Spock felt him reach out to curl his fingers around the back of Spock’s neck.

Spock looked up at him. McCoy’s pupils were blown wide, his face and chest flushed with pink, mouth open to reveal the dark and wet interior. He did not try to direct Spock, but merely held the back of his head as he gazed down in wonder.

Taking the erection in his hands, Spock ran his lips over the wet head. The moisture and scent and taste all conspired to dismantle his own control, and he could feel the erection he had been attempting to suppress push against the slit of his sheath. Wetness dribbled out as it parted and he closed his eyes, thinking to himself that it was illogical to touch his sheath at a time like this. He should not trail his fingers through his own wetness. He should not let his hand dip inside to gather it up, to encourage his cock to slip out into the cool air of his quarters. He should not do that, as it would make it impossible to exert control over himself.

But then again, it _was_ logical to utilize all of the fluids his body produced.

He dropped his hand to cup at the sensitive flesh between his legs, collecting the escaped fluid with gentle brushes of his fingers. McCoy’s grip tightened as he did it, and he knew McCoy was watching but he could not stop. He had no reason to stop, anyway. This was logical. Calculated. He was in control.

His hand came away wet and sopping and he reluctantly released McCoy’s erection to stand. McCoy looked at him with wide eyes, panting, and Spock reached out to trail his hands through the Doctor’s hair.

McCoy’s eyes slid shut and he moaned.

Intrigued, Spock chased the reaction. He curled his fingers to points and ran the blades of his  fingernails against McCoy’s scalp. That elicited another soft moan and an open-mouthed gasp. As Spock scented him, rubbing his fluids through McCoy’s hair, shivers ran up and down his body. McCoy jerked forward and his cock bumped against Spock’s hip, leaving a wet trail up and over the swell of his skin.

Spock paused and took several deep breaths. He found he could not move his hands, but he could speak. “It is done.”

McCoy opened his eyes slowly, languidly. “...Is it?” he asked, sounding as if he had been drinking alcohol.

Spock disentangled his hands, leaving McCoy’s hair in disarray. McCoy would have to comb it before he left, or even the human crew would recognize what had occurred between them. He was just doing his duty, of course, but to an outsider… “Yes,” Spock said. He stepped away.

McCoy caught his hand and held on tightly. “There’s one more thing.”

Spock’s hand was still sticky with his fluids and McCoy directed it back to his sheath, curling Spock’s middle and forefinger inside of himself. Spock blinked, confused and aroused at the pleasurable sensation as McCoy leaned against him, breathing hot on his neck. He could feel his own cock desperately attempting to push out of him, and his control slipped from his fingers like a cube of ice.

His cock peeked out, just the angular head, almost curious—if cocks could be curious. Spock shook off the thought; he was being irrational. He still frowned down at his flushed member as it reached for McCoy.

McCoy chuckled, the sound reverberating through Spock’s body like a shot. “You need a little of me on you, don’t you?” His accent seemed to have thickened, falling molasses-rich on Spock’s ears.

“...Yes.”

Gently extricating Spock’s hand, McCoy lifted it up to his lips. He kissed away the wetness there and opened his mouth, sliding Spock’s twitching digits over his tongue. Spock gasped at the sensation, at the pressure of McCoy’s warm mouth and hard teeth. Pleasure exploded over his nerves and traveled down his arm and throughout his body, making his skin tingle and sing with his desire for McCoy. McCoy waggled an eyebrow at him and sucked a little harder, erasing Spock’s scent and replacing it with his own.

Spock’s thigh muscles burned with the force of keeping his erection contained half-way inside of his body when McCoy finally let the hand fall from his mouth. His fingers still twitched in pleasure, seeking out the warmth again. Spock wiped off the saliva on his chest without thinking.

McCoy was in the same state he had been in that morning: hard, dripping, needy. But this time as he dressed he seemed almost chipper.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Spock?”

“...Yes.”

“Bright and early.” McCoy laughed dazzlingly.

“Yes.”

“In fact, come a little earlier than you think you need to. Never know how much time it’ll take to perform your duty.” McCoy was dressed now, and Spock was still standing there naked with his penis sadly drying in the air.

“Yes.”

“Good night, Spock.” McCoy waved at him happily and bounced out the door, leaving Spock confused and deflated in the center of his room. He realized McCoy had not combed his hair.

He felt that there was something important about that encounter that he was missing, but he could not identify it. He resolved to consider it further as he shoved his penis the rest of the way inside his body, wincing at the pain the act caused. The Doctor was often contradictory, but Spock knew he was capable of unraveling the enigma.

*

_The Fourth Day_

Spock spent his evening meditating on the conundrum. He slept only briefly. In the end, he decided that the only logical deduction was that McCoy had been embarrassed by his erection during their first encounter, and had derived pleasure from turning the tables on Spock. It seemed impossible that McCoy had actually enjoyed their contact.

Spock rose early and debated whether or not to wear a robe to McCoy’s quarters. He decided against it, as he did not wish to draw attention to himself while walking the corridors of the Enterprise. Further, he did not wish to appear too eager to McCoy. He was slightly perturbed by the Doctor’s mockery.

Instead, he put on his uniform and walked at a measured pace to McCoy’s quarters. He intended to discuss this with McCoy and inform him that he had not intended to embarrass the human, but that he could not allow McCoy to mock him in turn. If they were both of them to get through this they needed to act professionally. He signalled his arrival.

McCoy’s voice floated through the speaker. “Come.”

Spock entered, and his words died on his lips.

McCoy’s quarters were dimly lit, and warmer than was usual. The subtle aroma of soap and cloves permeated the space. Spock took a hesitant step inside and turned to see McCoy sprawled face-down and naked on his bed.

He seemed to glow. He looked over his shoulder, head pillowed in his arms in a way that emphasized the long stretch of his side and the musculature of his back. He was gazing at Spock sweetly, and Spock could see that he had scrubbed himself thoroughly. His skin was still flushed pink all over, and his hair was still damp and clinging to his scalp.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” McCoy said.

“Indeed,” Spock said, uncertain.

“You’re usually pretty punctual. Did something hold you up?”

“...No,” Spock said. “Merely the contemplation of my duty.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow and his hot gaze followed Spock as he undressed, lingering along with Spock’s hands at the skin he uncovered. Spock set his clothes aside and stepped forward, already knowing that he would not be able to contain his erection for long.

McCoy was too beautiful, too erotic like that. Laid out like a meal for Spock to devour. And he did wish to devour him. He was delectably clean, and Spock felt a surge of jealousy and possessiveness. He desired, strongly, to make McCoy smell of him again. He did not want McCoy to leave this room without being marked. He wanted Ambassador Cleil, the crew, everyone to know that he had claimed McCoy as his own.

He stalked towards the bed and watched McCoy’s subtle reactions. His eyes dilated and he licked his lips, spreading his legs apart so that Spock could kneel between them and press his chest against McCoy’s back. McCoy sighed as Spock licked the back of his neck and rubbed his scent gland against him, smearing his own claim over McCoy’s skin. McCoy’s body was too clean and too fresh, and Spock sought out the underlying odor.

He could smell the singularly human scent best in the pit of McCoy’s arm, and he buried his nose there, sniffing. McCoy shuddered but said nothing as Spock licked him, picking up the taste of desire and murky earth tones. He covered McCoy’s body with his own and set to work.

McCoy was delightfully open at that moment. Spock recognized now that McCoy had been stiff and unyielding before. Now, he was all give, all relaxed limbs and the statement of _yes_ on every inch of him. Spock was drooling as he covered McCoy’s arms and back, tracing the bunches of muscles with his tongue before scraping his teeth along McCoy's shuddering skin. McCoy hitched a breath and his legs slid apart even further.

Spock encouraged the action, cupping beneath McCoy’s glutes and pushing up his legs as he shifted down. He kissed the dimples of McCoy’s spine and then sucked at them, smelling the blood that rose to the surface under the pressure of his mouth. He wished to leave another kind of mark, a bite mark, a mouth-bruise that was a visual cue that he had claimed McCoy.

He did not. He worked lower, trailing his tongue over the rounded globes of McCoy’s bottom and then prying them apart with his hands, exposing the small hole.

“Spock…”

He could smell only soap, and the sharpness of his own fury that his scent was no longer here. He need to mark McCoy and keep him marked. He flicked out his tongue.

“Spock!” McCoy jolted beneath him and Spock held him still with his more powerful grip. “Jesus, are you…?”

He lapped up the length of McCoy’s crease and then trailed his tongue down. McCoy clearly found himself amenable to that, and so Spock did so again before pointing his tongue and flicking it around the puckered hole. He could not bear it any longer. He dove inside of McCoy’s body, his groin throbbing in desire as McCoy opened easily to him.

“Oh, God, that’s… You fucking… silver-tongued devil…” McCoy trailed off into little breathy gasps.

McCoy tasted of soap and water, and Spock was a scientist capable of interpreting data. From this, he could deduce that McCoy had stood in the shower, one foot on the edge of the tub. Back arched and neck strained as water poured down his body. He had opened himself to his own probing hand as he slid one soapy digit inside, cleaned himself thoroughly in anticipation of Spock’s seeking mouth. Spock growled and sucked at the ring of quivering muscle, pressed his thumb to the edge of it to keep it open for his tongue.

Saliva ran down his chin and over McCoy’s crease and testicles. Spock let it happen, not caring how filthy it made him—in fact, reveling in it, in the way his tongue pushed his mark deep into McCoy. In the way his spit coated McCoy’s external testes and emphasized the smell of arousal. It was beneficial to mark him like this. McCoy was hard now, rubbing against the bedclothes in a way that seemed unconscious as Spock tongued him, opened him up, licked away the soap until McCoy was only for him.

He had the sudden and irrational desire to taste McCoy’s semen. To feel his erection on his tongue, filling his mouth, heavy and thick and salty. He suppressed a growl as he pulled back, flipping McCoy on his back and burying his face in the man’s groin.

“Good Lord, Spock, just calm down.” McCoy’s hands were on his neck again, encouraging and soothing. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Spock pushed away his emotions and focused on the expanse of skin beneath him. His mouth found McCoy’s cock and before he could stop himself he swallowed it down hungrily. McCoy lifted his hips with a shout.

“Spock! Fucking—God, that’s—!”

Spock had to agree with McCoy’s assessment. The erection in his mouth did require the invocation of a deity. He rubbed his hands over McCoy’s scent glands to encourage production as he dove down. He wanted McCoy all the way inside of him. He wanted McCoy to fuck his throat and spill across his tongue. He wanted to drink from his body and know later, every time he opened his mouth, that McCoy had marked him.

His erection was uncontrollable. It slipped from his bodily hastily, seeking the warm flesh of another. He was desperate for it, stifling the moans he could not contain against McCoy’s flesh. His nose brushed the thick curls of hair and his eyes lolled back into his head at the aromas that washed over him. He was hard, so hard that he did not quite know what to do with himself. Alone, he would have relieved himself with brusque efficiency. But here he could not unfocus his attention from McCoy; McCoy’s gasps and groans, the way he writhed in pleasure, kept his hand on Spock’s head to gently encourage him.

McCoy’s fingers in his hair sent sparks down his spine. The human’s touch was light, almost hesitant. As though he believed Spock possessed his same frailty. Spock shivered and hummed around the alien cock in his mouth, and McCoy gasped.

“God, you’re—surprisingly good at this, Spock. Didn’t ever think, not really anyway…” McCoy bit his lip hard and Spock redoubled his efforts, imaging McCoy thinking of him like this. On his knees. Silenced by McCoy’s sex and his desire. Opening for McCoy in the middle of an argument. Allowing McCoy into his body, inside of him, to take control in his own gentle way.

He could smell McCoy’s impending orgasm, and taste it in the precome on his tongue. He let the cock fall out so he was sucking only the bulbous head, curling his tongue under the foreskin and applying pressure that made McCoy shout.

“Spock!”

When he came, it was salty and hot, and Spock wanted nothing more than to swallow it down. Instead he let it run out of his mouth and down his hand. He used it to coat McCoy’s cock, milking him as he whined and shuddered in his beautiful mix of pain and pleasure. He kept going until McCoy was flaccid and twitching in his hand. He wanted to play with the human more, but he was no torturer.

He pulled away and sat up, smearing his come-covered hand over his chest and belly. McCoy watched, eyes dilated, as he did it.

“Holy fuck.”

“An interesting assessment.”

McCoy twitched in annoyance as Spock settled over him, hands on either side of McCoy’s head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was merely an observation.”

“I was just commenting on the fact that you seem to have forgotten what you’re doing. You know everyone’s going to be able to smell that, not just Cleil.”

“Indeed,” Spock said. He closed his eyes and attempted to will his erection back inside his body. It was useless. He needed an orgasm to rid himself of it. “I must relieve myself.”

“Uh, you need to come?”

Spock opened his eyes and glared down. “I assumed that was obvious.”

“You should do it on me,” McCoy said hurriedly. “I mean, to get the most out of your fluids. That’ll really send Cleil for a loop.” He jerked up his hip and Spock’s erection brushed against the knob of his boney hip. “Just rub off on me.”

“‘Rub off?’” Spock asked.

“Like this.” McCoy’s hands came around his waist, pressing against his bottom and directing him down.

Spock’s eyes slid shut involuntarily as his erection pressed against McCoy’s flushed skin. The pressure was exquisite, both relieving and magnifying the primal desire to ejaculate. He couldn’t stop himself from thrusting against McCoy’s body, rubbing his wet cock all over the human beneath him.

McCoy let him do it. Even encouraged him. Spock tried to spare a mind to getting his scent on McCoy, but he was too far gone to focus fully on his task. He could only rut against McCoy, feel the cool-dry slide of McCoy’s skin against his, until he was shaking with the force of keeping himself supported on his weak arms. Lust pooled low in his belly as his head flopped down and he caught a whiff of his scent, layered over McCoy’s skin. He was everywhere on McCoy—had even been _inside_ him, licking him. As his slick smeared between them Spock felt his orgasm roll up behind him like a steady gust of wind which inelegantly shoved him off a cliff.

He came shuddering, without emission as he forced the last of his control to prevent it. As soon as he had he felt disappointment. He wanted to come on McCoy. Leave him dripping with it. Coated in it. Drowning in it. As Spock was drowning in him.

Spock was lightheaded and close to losing consciousness, but he resisted. McCoy ran soothing hands over his sides as he sat back on his heels. When Spock looked down at him, McCoy was smiling slightly.

“Was it good for you?”

Spock felt that was a joke, but he was uncertain if it was at his expense. He flattened his lips. “We must attend to our duties, Doctor.”

“What? We’ve got time.”

“We have only eighteen minutes before our shifts begin.”

“Shit, it’s been that long?” McCoy wiggled his way up and tumbled from the bed. “I gotta get dressed.” He winced. “And normally I would say I have to wash off, but…”

“Yes. Please refrain. The application should be sufficient, however…” Spock stopped talking as he noticed that McCoy wasn’t looking at him. “Doctor?”

“Only two more days of this, huh?”

“Yes. The Ambassador leaves tomorrow at 1200 hours.”

“...Still want me to come over tonight?”

Spock hesitated, attempting to read the Doctor’s mood and failing. “I believe it would be prudent.”

“Okay.” McCoy slowly put on his underwear. Spock watched his round bottom, where Spock’s tongue had been only moments before, disappear behind cloth. “I’ll see you then.”

“...Indeed.”

*

Every time he opened his mouth, he smelled McCoy, but after lunch the smell was gone and replaced only with the flavor of nutrition cubes. He thought that Kirk was looking at him oddly and wondered if the Captain recognized the odor of sex, but perhaps he was only feeling self-conscious.

Regardless, he found himself at McCoy’s office that afternoon without a clear reason for being there.

“Spock,” McCoy said, glancing up from his desk as Spock entered and let the door slide shut behind him. “What can I help you with?”

Spock made sure the privacy locks had automatically engaged, and then said, “I have come to check that Ambassador Cleil has not forced another encounter.”

“She hasn’t. I haven’t seen her at all today, in fact. I think she’s touring the archives. Why? Did she say something to you?”

Spock shook his head. “Merely a… preventative measure.” He hesitated.

McCoy set his datapadd down and leaned forward. The movement made his clothes rustle, pulling his shirt tight across his chest and releasing Spock’s scent into the air. Spock felt his mouth water and his sheath pick up interest. “Is there something else?”

“Another precaution,” Spock said, taking a step forward and then stopping.

McCoy raised a brow. “...Spock, you’re not making any sense.”

“I have lost your scent,” Spock said. He realized that he was desperate and he ruthlessly controlled the emotion. This was about logic. “It is therefore necessary to reapply.”

“You—here?” McCoy looked around nervously, but of course they were alone.

“I will be brief.” Spock could not hold back—no, it was only that logically there was no use wasting time. He stepped forward as McCoy rose from his chair, and he pressed himself against the Doctor’s body, inhaling deeply.

McCoy shivered most gratifyingly as he did it. “I only smell of you,” he said softly. It wasn’t really a question.

“Certainly,” Spock agreed anyway. “There is also the aroma of your work. Antiseptic, hand wash, some oils from handling tricorders. You also smell of yourself.”

“...Myself?”

“Indeed.” Spock sucked at the side of his neck and bracketed McCoy’s hips with his hands, rubbing little circles as he felt McCoy hardening against his leg. “You smell odd. Alien.”

McCoy laughed. “Human.”

“Correct. You smell of Earth. Although you no longer wear your cologne, your scent recalls its memory.”

McCoy shivered. “...Are you going to touch me, Spock?”

“I will touch your penis,” Spock said. “And bring you to orgasm.” He pulled back and blinked at McCoy curiously. “Is this acceptable?”

“...Let me mark you.”

“Doctor?”

“While you do it. Let me mark you, too.”

“This is intended to facilitate that.”

McCoy shook his head. “I want to give you a hickey, Spock.”

“Ah.” Spock considered the proposal. “Acceptable.”

McCoy’s eyes lit up and his hands were suddenly at Spock’s shirt collar, pulling it aside to make room for his gentle kisses. Spock realized as he did it that McCoy had never kissed him. That was unfortunate. He tipped his head aside to allow McCoy free reign, and then he unbuttoned McCoy’s pants.

He was already hardening, and Spock tugged him out without preamble. McCoy stifled a moan against Spock’s neck and then opened his mouth, pressing teeth against skin but not biting, just holding there and panting as Spock stroked him to full tumescence. It did not take long. McCoy was soon hot and heavy in his hand, and then McCoy began to suck at his neck.

Spock tipped his head further, as the sensation was most appealing. He could feel McCoy’s tongue and teeth and the hot expanse of his mouth and the wetness of his saliva. McCoy tugged at Spock’s flesh, bruising it, raising blood to the surface and popping the tiny vessels beneath his skin. McCoy gave him several marks such as this as he leaned against Spock, panting in time to Spock’s movements.

McCoy’s cock was rougher than his own to the touch, and the skin flowed nicely in Spock’s hand. Spock’s own cock did not have such loose skin, and so he explored the alien erection a moment. He pinched the foreskin again to hear McCoy gasp, and then he ran his forefinger under it so that McCoy shuddered and groaned and bit him harder. Wetness was pooling under the skin as precome beaded out of McCoy’s tip, and Spock swiped it up and used it to make his hand glide more smoothly. He stroked McCoy until his hips were stuttering and he seemed to have forgotten what he was doing, and he was just resting his head against Spock’s shoulder and breathing and gasping and moaning as he came.

Spock hastily caught the fluid in his hand. He milked McCoy to get every drop until McCoy weakly pushed him away, and then he raised his hand up to his mouth.

McCoy’s eyes went wide as Spock sucked the ejaculate from his hand. It was intense, erotic, salt that filled his mouth and he savored it even as he ate it greedily. He cleaned his hand thoroughly and sucked at his own fingers in an extremely risque act. He did not care that it was risque at the moment. He cared only for the pleasure the pressure of his mouth brought.

“...Do you like it?” McCoy asked him quietly as he ate.

Spock raised his eyebrow and let his hand fall from his mouth. “I do not find it disagreeable.”

McCoy chuckled and rested his forehead in his palm. “You’re really something, Spock.”

“Clearly I exist,” Spock said, confused. “Why would I not be something?”

McCoy just laughed again. “Do you want me to take care of you?” His fingers trailed over Spock’s slit, brushing through his pants in way that made Spock’s entire body light up.

“...Unnecessary,” Spock said. “I should not delay getting back to the bridge.”

“Uh-huh.” McCoy put himself away and zipped up his pants. “You just want to save it all for later.” He suddenly looked nervous. “I’m still coming to your quarters after shift, right?”

“Of course. Ambassador Cleil is not yet off the ship.”

“Right. That’s the only reason I would come.” McCoy puffed up, but it appeared to be an affected gesture. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I will not.” Spock stepped away. “I must return to my duties… Thank you, Doctor, for attending to my precautionary measures.”

McCoy always seemed more relaxed after an orgasm. Spock was shocked to realize he now had two points of data to back up that assertion. “Usually I hate your precautionary measures, but in this case I can see the appeal.” He waggled his eyebrow. “Enjoy your duties.”

Spock nodded once and left. He had a strong urge as he walked out to turn back to McCoy and take his hand to hold tight. He ignored the irrational thought.

Ambassador Cleil was in the turbolift and Spock nodded to her politely. Her nostrils flared as he entered, and she smiled.

“Perhaps I was mistaken in my initial assumptions about you and your ship,” she said kindly.

“In what way?”

“I thought you were all quite backwards, but it’s clear you are willing to do what is necessary to protect your own.” Her head tipped up and she grasped the turbolift handle. “Bridge. I’d like to talk to your Captain. I think I’m ready to make my report to Bruba’ae.”

Spock blinked in shock. “You wish to return home immediately?”

“Why delay? I know what I will say.”

Spock had the strong desire to force her to stay. Either through physical means or trickery. If she left, the Doctor would not come to his quarters that night. He would not lie with him again. They would not mingle their scents together. He would not be able to claim McCoy again. He would not have an excuse.

He did not say anything. They rode the turbolift up, and Ambassador Cleil called a meeting with the Captain. Within the hour she was back on her homeworld.

*

Spock sat in his darkened quarters, staring at his report on Ambassador Cleil’s visit and wondering what to write. He was certain he should not write anything about his engagements with Dr. McCoy, but he could think of nothing else. He could not erase the mental image of McCoy, mouth slack with pleasure as he came. The taste of McCoy on his tongue. The scent of him on his skin. Spock had not showered, and he was deeply distracted by the lingering traces of their encounters.

He was surprised when his door chimed.

“Come in,” he said, standing.

McCoy entered, jittering nervously. “Okay, let’s get started.” He was suddenly on Spock, hands coming to his waist as Spock stepped into him.

He had to close his eyes. McCoy smelled of him, of his mark, of his desire. But he must not have been made aware of the Ambassador’s return to her home planet. “Doctor—”

“Why are you always calling me ‘Doctor’ at times like this? You’re so formal, Spock.” McCoy pressed his lips against Spock’s neck, where the hickey he had left barely peeked above his shirt collar.

“We are attending to our duty,” Spock said guiltily. He wanted to fall into McCoy. Slip under his clothes and rub against his body. He wanted McCoy urgently, desperately.

“Sure,” McCoy said. He pulled back and took Spock’s hands in his own, shoving them up under his shirt. “Just doing our duty, right?”

“Doctor, we must cease.”

“Why?” McCoy’s eyes glittered, wet. He moved against Spock and Spock held himself still, reveling in the sensation and attempting to hide his reaction.

“Ambassador Cleil has left the ship. There is no required reason to continue.” He wanted to go on, to tell McCoy of his desires, but the words stuck in his throat.

McCoy shoved him away before he could say anything He was panting hard—almost hyperventilating. “Oh yeah? She’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“So now there’s abso-fucking-lutely no reason for me to be here, touching you. Huh? Is that it?”

“...Indeed, Doctor.”

“Fine!” McCoy shouted at him. “I’ll just go!”

“McCoy, I do not understand the source of your—”

“Shut up!”

McCoy spun on his heel and stalked out of the room. Spock took a step towards him, distressed, but he was not fast enough to prevent the door from sliding shut.

Shaking, Spock sat back down. He gripped his stylus and tried to write. He had betrayed McCoy’s trust by not informing him of the Ambassador’s departure immediately. McCoy had every right to be upset.

Spock sat staring at his datapadd until morning. He had planned to go to McCoy’s quarters, but he did not. There was no reason to do so now.

*

_Three days after that._

McCoy was avoiding him.

Of this, Spock was certain. Four times he had turned a corner only to see McCoy’s hastily retreating backside disappearing down the corridor. He had twice gone to sickbay to talk to McCoy only to be met with Chapel reluctantly informing him he was out. During their weekly department head meeting, McCoy had sent Chapel in his stead. Spock had attempted to corner him in the mess hall, but McCoy was apparently taking his food elsewhere.

Even Kirk had noticed, if his sad and confused eyes were any indication.

Spock did not know what to do. He felt shame for having misled McCoy on their last night. He had taken advantage of McCoy’s ignorance over the absence of Ambassador Cleil and allowed McCoy to touch him. He could still feel the echo of the Doctor’s hands on his body, tinged with the acrid memory of McCoy, enraged, storming from his quarters. He thought about it often as McCoy’s scent was slowly chipped from him by his everyday duties.

The avoidance was interfering with their professional relationship. But more than that, Spock found that he missed McCoy. He missed their arguments and McCoy’s deadly glares. He missed McCoy’s smile and his bright blue eyes and his lithe body and his quick wit. Spock felt his absence acutely.

Thus, he did the only logical thing. He forced the situation to a conclusion.

He used his override code to enter McCoy’s quarters. He found the Doctor sitting at his table staring blankly at a datapadd, an eerie mirror of Spock only three nights ago.

“Doctor.”

“Spock!” McCoy jumped right out of his chair and backed up against the wall. “What are you doing? You can’t just override my door lock!”

“I deemed it an emergency, not unlike your own use of medical override when you entered my quarters unannounced.” He began to walk forward, intending to keep his approach unthreatening, but McCoy shied away. Spock paused in the center of the room and took a deep breath to continue explaining, but then he stopped.

He sniffed again.

A third time.

McCoy still smelled of him.

The knowledge hit him like a sandstorm, rough and buffeting and frantically exhilarating. McCoy had not bathed since their last encounter. Although his own scent was slowly overtaking Spock’s residual pheromone trace, it was still quite clear who he belonged to.

“Spock, look—”

“Your scent.”

McCoy winced. “I, I can explain.”

“Please do.”

McCoy opened his mouth. He shut it again. “Okay, maybe I can’t explain.”

Spock took a step forward without thinking. “You smell of me.”

“I’m sorry.” He winced away, but with his back against the wall he had nowhere to go. He had made a poor tactical choice.

“That is why you have been avoiding my presence.”

McCoy stared at the ground, gaze unwavering as he stood very stiffly. “I didn’t want to embarrass you,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to know that I… I got up the next morning after she left and I just didn’t shower.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes bright and worried. “I didn’t want to admit it was over.”

Spock inhaled sharply, flattening his lips to suppress his urge to grin uncontrollably. “I see.”

“Spock, I’m sorry.”

“Cease apologizing,” Spock ordered. He found he was suddenly only a few centimeters from McCoy, although he could not recall traversing the distance of his quarters. “We cannot continue to avoid one another.”

“I, I know. I thought after a few days I would get over it.”

Spock reached out and took McCoy’s arm, ignoring the way the human violently winced at his touch. “Come with me.”

He dragged a protesting McCoy into the bathroom. He could feel McCoy’s arm twisting in his grip, and it thrilled him.

“Spock, listen, I’m sorry I didn’t wash away your scent. I know you probably don’t want me going around with your mark on me. It’s a faux pas, or embarrassing to you, or, uh, I don’t know, but I’m sorry.” McCoy seemed to be babbling. “And I’m sorry about trying, trying to get more out of you even though I knew Cleil was gone.”

Curious. So McCoy had come to his quarters with the full knowledge that the Ambassador had left. This information intrigued Spock and emboldened him. He knew what he wanted, and he was certain now that McCoy wanted the same thing.

He turned on McCoy and McCoy shrank back. Spock sighed, half-fond and half-exasperated, and took McCoy’s face in his hands. He drew him close and marveled at the scent of McCoy’s skin, the days-old odor of Spock’s own marking. His cheeks were prickly and unshaven and Spock brushed his thumbs over the hairs as he kissed him, human-style.

McCoy gasped into his mouth, and Spock took advantage, sliding his tongue inside and flickering it, coaxing a shocked moan from McCoy as he tickled at the roof of his mouth. He could feel McCoy shaking and so he leaned against him, supporting McCoy’s body with his own. He held the human close and explored his mouth, his teeth, the smooth glide of his tongue. It thrilled him to kiss McCoy’s slack and surprised mouth, to hold his head still as he claimed McCoy as his. Staked a new claim on behalf of Vulcan.

When he pulled back McCoy was glassy-eyed and wheezing. He watched McCoy’s eyes flutter shut and then open again, his long black eyelashes pulling apart incrementally.

“Spock, what is this?”

“I will assist you in bathing,” he said. He found his voice was low and rough to his own ears. He curled his fingers into the hem of McCoy’s shirt and tugged. “I will scrub you thoroughly, and then I will take you to bed.”

McCoy’s breath caught, and his hair was a wild and staticy mess from the removal of his shirt. “You want to clean me?”

“My scent on you is distracting,” Spock said honestly as he buried his nose in the crook of McCoy’s neck, inhaling deeply. “I find it erotic. Yet, also, I wish the opportunity to reapply it.”

McCoy chuckled. It made his chest rise and fall, and Spock watched, vaguely entranced. “You’re just as confused as I am, aren’t you?”

“Obviously.” He unbuttoned McCoy’s pants.

McCoy shuddered as he did it, skin quivering beneath Spock’s long fingers. He enjoyed the contrast in their skin tones: his olive and flushed green and McCoy’s pink and pale. McCoy’s own steady hands came up to wrap around his waist, trailing under both shirts to get at his skin.

They undressed each other unhurriedly in the bathroom. Spock found himself frequently derailed by each expanse of McCoy’s skin he uncovered. He breathed him in, surprised and thrilled to find that McCoy smelled of him everywhere. He could tell McCoy had washed his hands at some point, but then the scent had been reapplied. He imagined McCoy lying in bed, fanning his broad fingers over his stomach where Spock had rubbed his leaking cock, remembering him.

When they were naked he lifted McCoy up and over the edge of the tub. McCoy let out a surprised grunt as he did it.

“I’m not an invalid,” he grumbled.

“It pleases me to maneuver you like this,” Spock explained as he set McCoy down and turned on the water. They both jumped as the cold spray slid into warmth. “Does it disturb you?”

McCoy shivered. “No,” he said quietly, and then he grinned, closing his eyes and tipping his head backwards into the spray. “I enjoy a little manhandling now and again.”

Spock watched, feeling hotter than the shower, as McCoy lifted his arms and ran his fingers through his hair to wet it. Spock was pleased that McCoy enjoyed water showers. It added something to the experience. A strange exoticism that heightened Spock’s arousal and made him burn, not uncomfortably, for McCoy. He was certain that soon he would associate water only with sex.

McCoy's arms and chest flexed as he washed out his hair with only water. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Spock startled and frowned at McCoy, who was smirking at him. Spock turned and gathered up a palmful of washing powder. “Allow me?”

McCoy’s grin took on new proportions as he leaned in to present his head to Spock. Spock slid their wet bodies together, insinuating his leg between McCoy’s and feeling his slippery half-hard cock against his thigh. He ran the washing powder through McCoy’s hair and McCoy groaned, his smirk slipping off his face as his mouth opened in pleasure.

“You are sensitive here,” Spock observed.

“What clued you in?”

Spock hummed and raked his fingers through McCoy’s hair, eliciting a shiver of pleasure. He scrubbed in little circles that made McCoy’s eyes fall shut. His mouth was still enticingly open, and so Spock kissed him again.

They kissed just as wet and hot and sloppy as the shower, tangling up as Spock cleaned him. The scent of the washing powder was bright and clean, and the water added a clear after-odor. But beneath that McCoy still smelled strong of Spock’s pheromones, and Spock growled into his mouth at the realization.

He scrubbed McCoy thoroughly indeed, almost rabid in his desire to get McCoy utterly clean so that he could sully him again. His hands trailed down the back of McCoy’s neck and over his shoulders, along his spine and down to the delicate slope above his buttocks. He rested his thumbs there and pressed at the dimples beside McCoy’s spine, urging a groan from the man. McCoy bit at his lips, leaving them bruised and tingling. He tightened his grip as he hiked McCoy’s left leg up, opening him.

McCoy leaned back, grinning at him. “Got big plans, do you?”

“I have devised an efficient cleaning procedure,” Spock said. He took more soap into his hand and pressed his palm between McCoy’s cheeks.

McCoy gasped at the contact, his hands scrabbling at Spock’s shoulders. “Y-you know, it’s really not fair.”

“Explain,” he said, dancing his finger around the quivering entrance.

“I couldn’t tell whether or not I still smelled of you.”

“Oh?”

“I was going on—Oh! On, on hope, maybe.” He threw his head back as Spock slid the tip of his finger inside, and then dropped back out. “And now, you’re washing it all away.”

“Only so that I might replace it,” Spock explained. He slid his finger in again and McCoy shuddered, his leg slipping from Spock’s hip. He quickly hiked it up again.

“But I won’t know whether your replacement is successful.”

Spock growled. “I will.”

“Oh.” McCoy’s eyes were blown wide as Spock gently opened him. “That’s a good point.”

Spock smirked before he could stop himself. “As I have said, we do have our moments of agreement.”

McCoy laughed brightly and Spock appreciated the sound so much that he kissed him. He swallowed McCoy’s tiny moans of gratification as he fingered him, enjoying the subtle pressure around his sensitive digit. Little jolts of pleasure rushed up his hand and arm and down into his groin, making his sheath begin to throb with desire and urgency. This was logical, he told himself. It was logical to clean McCoy so that he could dirty him again. The very idea was enticing; the thought that he could wash McCoy like this whenever he pleased, wipe all evidence of their encounters from his body only to start all over again. He fingered McCoy until the soap was gone, washed away by water, and then he slid his hand from his body.

More soap, and he had to focus now on washing McCoy’s legs. He turned his head to look at the pattern of the water pouring through the hairs there, and he felt McCoy’s head loll against his shoulder. He initially found the reaction endearing, but then he jumped when McCoy delivered a sharp bite to his neck.

“Doctor,” he warned.

“Hmm?” McCoy hummed innocently around a mouthful of flesh. He worried it between his teeth and Spock’s vision greyed for a moment.

“You are...bruising me.” He wrapped his hand around McCoy’s foot, resting on his lower back, and massaged it gently.

McCoy chuckled and picked a new spot, drawing another mark to the surface with his clever mouth. “Does it hurt?” he asked, laving at the sore spot with his tongue.

“Not precisely,” Spock said, confused by his own non-specificity.

“Mm, do you want me to stop?”

Spock curled his hands under McCoy’s thighs and lifted both legs up to wrap around his waist. “No.”

McCoy did not stop nipping and sucking at his neck and shoulders, even as he keyed off the shower. He sucked at Spock’s neck and hung on as Spock stepped from the tub and out the door into the bedroom. Spock lost track of the number of mouth-bruises McCoy had left on his body. He looked forward to counting them later.

Spock set him down on the bed and McCoy pulled away with clear reluctance and rearranged himself. Spock noted the sharp pride in his eyes as he examined his handiwork on Spock’s skin.

“It looks like you’ve been through a barfight,” McCoy observed.

“Illogical. I do not engage in ‘barfights.’”

“You’re going to have a hell of a time explaining away those bruises, then.”

Spock started to say that he could erase them quite easily with a dermal regenerator, but then he paused. He saw the hesitant, fragile look in McCoy, clearly evident in the way he bit at his plush lower lip. “I will explain their origin truthfully to anyone who asks.”

“Really?” His eyes widened.

“That is the intention of such a mark, is it not?” Spock crawled into bed and kissed McCoy soundly before pulling away with a pop. “They demonstrate your ownership over me.”

McCoy’s eyes were glassy now, and dazed. “And yours over me?”

“That will require further effort.” He kissed his way down McCoy’s cheek and to his neck, licking at his pulse point. He didn’t bite; that wasn’t his way, although the pure joy that McCoy apparently received from biting him did make him curious. Next time. “You have entirely lost my scent.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” McCoy arched into his touch, his body utterly belying the forced irritation in his words.

“It is my own,” Spock said anyway, delighting in McCoy’s twitch of surprise at his capitulation. “I assure you it was intentional.”

“That’s not very logical.”

“It is wholly logical.” Spock kissed the divot between his clavicle and then licked it. “Since it has resulted in the desired outcome and given me the ability to pleasure you with my tongue, it was clearly the appropriate decision.”

McCoy groaned and his hand came up to curl around the back of Spock’s neck, gently encouraging. “So it’s an excuse?” he said, smiling.

“Perhaps.”

Spock had been touching him as he spoke, and now he began to chase his hands with his mouth. He kissed at McCoy’s skin, licking away the rough pebbles that rose as the water evaporated from him, cooling him. McCoy was shivering beneath him as he flicked out his tongue to brush against one hardened nipple, and he jerked in surprise.

“Jesus, that’s…”

Spock agreed with McCoy’s half-thought, sucking the nub into his mouth and drawing a groan from him. His nipples were sensitive, perfect to play with, and so Spock brought up his hand and pinched at the other one before flicking his nail across it. McCoy jumped, hissing, and then relaxed as Spock rolled the abused flesh between his fingers.

He could feel McCoy’s erection against his sternum, and he could smell it in the air. McCoy’s blood was running hot and fast under his skin, all of it going south to engorge his cock. He was ready for sex, utterly ready and willing. Spock could sense it in him and it aroused him in turn. His sheath was an impossibly irritating deterrent to getting his cock inside of McCoy, yet he still focused on keeping his own erection contained as he licked his way down McCoy’s body slowly, almost leisurely, and then took him in his mouth.

“Oh!” McCoy’s hand on the back of his neck tightened and then loosened, his fingers tickling the fine hairs there. “Spock, you’re gorgeous.”

He looked up to meet gazes with McCoy, feeling his erection throb in his mouth as he did it. He hummed his confusion at McCoy’s choice of words, and McCoy groaned. He slurped around his erection, tasting the precome there and letting it into his body even as he coated McCoy with his own scent. He spread McCoy’s legs with his hands and cupped his oddly alien external testicles, letting his middle finger fall between them to press at McCoy’s entrance.

McCoy was flushed pink from head to toe, his breath coming in fast gasps. Spock had never seen him like this. Even in their past encounters, he had maintained some control over himself. A careful distance. But he seemed utterly lost in his own pleasure as Spock rolled his testicles in his hand, massaging them. He could smell McCoy’s pleasure building, pooling hot semen there. He was practically holding it in his hands and he wanted to taste it, so he let McCoy’s cock fall from his mouth and dipped his head down to suck one testicle into his mouth.

“Fuck!” McCoy was clearly wrecked. His cock bobbed against Spock’s cheek and Spock watched him past it. He watched as McCoy threw his head back and let his chest rise up, his peaked nipples contrasting with his skin in a deeply pleasing manner. “Spock, that’s… God, you really have no shame, do you?”

Spock hummed and opened his mouth wider, attempting to fit both into it at once. McCoy shuddered in pleasure and Spock sucked on them, feeling the blood rush against his tongue and hearing McCoy’s heartbeat loud in the vessel of his inner thigh. McCoy was going to come, he could feel it, sense it, and he _desired_ it. He sucked at McCoy and felt his cock pulsing and throbbing against his cheek, reveled in the twitch of his body as he went stiff. Spock could smell his balls emptying out as he came, hot and sticky, against his face.

Spock allowed it to coat him, letting his lashes fall shut to avoid getting any in his eye. He kept McCoy in his mouth until he let out a sound of pain, and only then did he open his eyes.

McCoy was gaping at him. He released Spock’s neck and ran his hand over the ejaculate on his face, gathering it onto his fingers. Spock quickly turned his head to the side, capturing those fingers in his mouth.

“Fuck,” McCoy said eloquently.

Spock sucked hungrily at McCoy’s fingers. He focused on the digits, curling his tongue around them and letting McCoy tickle the back of his throat and the roof of his mouth. McCoy’s hands were erotic, blindingly sexual, and Spock could sense his vision greying out. He let McCoy slide from his mouth and then he attached his lips to the small wrist bone that fit so perfectly inside him. He laved at it as McCoy gently cleaned the rest of his face with his free hand, murmuring softly under his breath.

McCoy’s hand was delicious, but it wasn’t exactly what he required. His attention was split: half devoted to keeping his erection contained until it was needed, and half focused on the pure physical pleasure he was experiencing. He wanted to catalogue it. Memorize it. Covet it. Reluctantly, he planted a final mouth-kiss on McCoy’s wrist bone and let it drop. He reached beneath the human and tipped McCoy’s hips up, burying his head under him and flicking out his tongue over McCoy’s hole.

“Spock, I-I think you’ve got a real _thing_ about this,” McCoy said between startled gasps.

Spock did not respond; he merely plunged his tongue inside McCoy’s waiting body, driving his scent deep. He could taste residual soap and he felt a flash of annoyance—why did McCoy not smell like him? But of course, it was his own fault. He still growled and set to work, lapping and licking at him, drooling out his desire and his scent as McCoy’s thighs closed around his ears, his feet resting on Spock’s shoulder blades.

He could feel McCoy’s toes flexing with pleasure, and it aroused him. He wondered if McCoy’s feet were as sensitive as a Vulcan’s, and that thought distracted him so completely that he lost control for one moment and his sheath opened, spilling drops of fluid onto the covers as his cock slid out into the cool air. He throbbed with desire, and he could no longer take his time.

He slid a finger inside of McCoy, twinning it with his tongue. His hands were sensitive enough to detect every minute flex in McCoy’s muscles. The pressure was maddening, and so he slid in a second finger.

McCoy gasped and arched, his body shuddering to accommodate the intrusion. He was tight, so tight, and yet utterly open and willing to allow Spock inside. Spock felt something clench in his side, and he realized it was his heart skipping a beat.

He twisted his fingers and then spread them, reluctantly withdrawing his tongue. He let McCoy’s hips fall back to the bed and watched as McCoy’s stomach muscles stopped twitching with the over-exertion of keeping himself aloft for Spock’s mouth. McCoy was gasping slightly as Spock opened him.

“Any time now,” McCoy said.

“If your statement is meant to imply that I could enter you now, you are mistaken.” Spock said that mostly for himself, to remind himself not to just pound into McCoy’s willing body. He didn’t want to hurt him.

McCoy still glared at him. “I know my limits,” he growled. “If I say I’m ready, I’m ready.”

“You are barely accommodating two fingers,” Spock argued weakly. He started to pump them in and out a little faster. “I do not wish to harm you.”

“You won’t. Spock, come on, I’ve been waiting for y—for days. I just want you in me.”

Spock shuddered involuntarily. “I am.”

“You know what I mean.”

“My...hand,” Spock explained slowly. “Is nearly as sensitive as my penis in this context.” That was a slight exaggeration, but if he focused hard enough he could redirect the sensation of pleasure from his fingers all the way to his cock, temporarily relieving the intense ache he felt. He was so wet and hard and he just wanted to be inside of McCoy, but he couldn’t be. Not yet.

“Really?” McCoy looked intrigued. “So when I sucked on your fingers the other day...?”

“I believe you would be adept at fellatio, Doctor.”

McCoy laughed brightly. “I like to think I’m not half bad.” He grinned and wriggled his hips. “Maybe you’ll get the chance to find out?”

“I look forward to the opportunity.” He realized, suddenly, that McCoy was very far away. He felt cold, although of course his body temperature remained at average. He still slid up McCoy’s body and kissed his lips, laying himself over McCoy protectively.

McCoy accommodated him, lifting his leg so Spock could keep fingering him. McCoy sighed in bliss as Spock let his cock hang down to allow his fluid production to slowly drip over McCoy’s sensitive hole. He let the fluid build up, pushed it inside, and then followed it with a third finger.

McCoy curled both arms around Spock’s neck and hugged him fiercely, kissing him open-mouthed and lewd. Their intimate touching had continued long enough that McCoy was growing aroused again, his cock filling out and tangling in the hairs above Spock’s bellybutton as he thrust against him. Spock pressed down a little harder to give him more friction, and McCoy sighed into his mouth.

Spock was lost. He felt he was not totally in control of his body as he removed his hand, eliciting a whine of anticipation from his partner. He took his throbbing cock into his palm and lined himself up. McCoy’s legs came around his waist and Spock pressed the angled edge of his cock against his opening and he was of another world; his skin was on fire and he was floating and he slid inside McCoy’s waiting body and McCoy threw his head back and moaned.

“More,” he ordered, and McCoy laughed.

“More?” he asked breathlessly.

“Moan for me again,” Spock said, hitching his hips back. He drove them forward. “Allow me to hear your pleasure.”

McCoy did. He moaned in ecstasy and in joy as Spock took him, claimed him, marked him with the fluids of his body. His hands grappled at Spock’s back and held him close as his body reverberated with the sounds of his pleasure. Spock reveled in it, craved it. He felt that every part of himself was attuned to McCoy’s pleasure. That he did not feel it only in his cock or his skin, but that his mouth tasted of McCoy and his ears rang with McCoy’s pleasure and that his nose was overrun with the scent of his arousal. He gazed down at McCoy’s beautiful face and took in the sight of him: his blue and glittering eyes, his flushed skin, his damp and slick hair, the perfect bend to his lips.

They kissed. Spock was in him, utterly out of control, and McCoy did not mind. McCoy desired him, he knew it to be true from the tenor of his desperate moans. He felt McCoy against his stomach, twitching, and then McCoy was coming with quiet groans and his scent again permeated the air. His arousal and his need were scorching, cloying, musky. McCoy came so readily and so beautifully—utterly open and frail, merely throwing himself, unguarded, into Spock’s arms and hoping he was caught.

Spock caught him, let the come mingle between them, rising hot and salty into the room and he was too far gone to fight it, to fight the pleasure building at the base of his spine. This time he could not, would not, prevent his own orgasm and so he came into McCoy, pounding into him. He drove his come deep inside his body with his cock. He marked McCoy inside as he had marked him outside. Filled him. Took him. Claimed him.

Kissed him again, fierce.

His arms were shaking with exertion and with desire. He could not fully control his emotional reaction as he panted with eyes screwed shut. He was embarrassed and ashamed at his reaction.

“Spock.”

He felt McCoy’s hand on his forehead, and then gentle on his cheekbone. McCoy kissed his lips softy.

“Spock, you were…”

He opened his eyes and McCoy looked up at him, open and free.

“Beautiful.”

Slowly, they disengaged. Spock found he could not speak yet, and so he avoided doing anything that would make McCoy ask questions of him. His cock slowly retracted into his body as he rested his hand on McCoy’s stomach, touching the cooling ejaculate there.

He had done that. He had made McCoy come. It seemed unreal.

McCoy hummed and pulled him into a hug, kissing him on the forehead and then lifting his hand to his lips to plant another kiss on his second knuckle. “Are you okay?”

Spock nodded.

McCoy studied him. “Really? You haven’t said anything.”

Spock opened his mouth and choked. He cleared his throat and then nodded again. “I am well, Doctor.”

McCoy grinned at him. “We’re going to have to work on that,” he said, and odd mixture of soft and gruff.

“To what do you refer?”

“What you call me in bed.” He sighed and stretched luxuriously before settling back against Spock’s chest. “How would you like it if I called you ‘Commander’ when you came?”

Spock considered. “I believe it would depend on the circumstances.”

McCoy laughed uproariously. “Oh no, no way. We’ve got enough kinky things to explore. I don’t need that to worry about as well.” He turned his head, planting a little kiss somewhere on Spock’s shoulder. “Hmm, so tell me. Is your need to mark me sated?”

“For the moment,” Spock said. He realized that McCoy was falling asleep, and he held him closer. “Doctor?”

“Hm?” he hummed sleepily.

“How do you wish for me to refer to you?”

“Mm...however you like, Spock.” He was already snoring slightly between words, breath airy and relaxed.

 _Ashayam_ , Spock decided as held him close. He would explain in the morning, when they were both awake and bright-eyed (although perhaps after a repeat performance of tonight’s activities). He held McCoy as he slept peacefully and then, after a moment's consideration, he allowed himself to fall asleep as well.

After all, to cuddle his partner was quite logical.

*

_Coda._

“Spock, you’ve got a little something right here.”

Spock brushed at the spot on his neck that the Captain was indicating, attempting to remove the foreign ‘something’ from his body. Kirk merely frowned.

“No, you’re right on it, but…” He leaned in over his plate of food to get a better look, and then his eyes went wide. He sat back heavily in his chair with a grin that Leonard would no doubt refer to as ‘shit-eating.’ “Why, Mr. Spock, I believe that’s a hickey I spy.”

“Indeed,” Spock agreed.

Kirk chuckled. “Sorry, I thought it was something else. I’m used to them being purplish, not… green.” He poked at his salad. “It’s a nice one.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Kirk’s grin deepened, wobbling slightly as though he was attempting not to laugh. Spock did not see the humor in the situation. “I still haven’t received your report about the Bruba’ae Ambassador’s visit.”

“My apologies, Captain. I am concerned with ensuring that the wording of my report is accurate.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirk said. He glanced past Spock and raised his arm, waving. “Bones! Come sit with us.”

Spock turned in time to see Leonard scowling at them. Spock watched him approach, feeling gentle fondness at the sight of his Ashayam.

“I see you’re not eating your salad,” Leonard accused as he sat down across from Kirk and next to Spock, plopping his tray down angrily.

“Bones, I’m eating it, I’m eating it. Why would I order something I didn’t intend to eat?” He took a bite and grimaced. “See? Delicious.” He gagged slightly.

Leonard grunted and redirected his glare to Spock. Spock could see his mouth curling slightly at the corner as Leonard utterly failed to suppress his smile. “And you? You’re not eating anything at all!”

“Vulcans do not require food as often as humans.”

“Oh, no you don’t. None of your self-sacrificing bullshit today.” Leonard took a bowl off his tray and set it in front of Spock. “Here, that’s for you.”

Spock arched an eyebrow and lifted the cover, revealing a small mound of cut yellow pineapple. An Earth fruit. He wondered if Leonard was aware of the Vulcan custom of gifting fruit to a sexual partner. He glanced towards him and saw Leonard’s feral grin. Either he did know of the custom, or humans associated pineapple with sex. Spock decided both options were potentially fruitful, and he picked up a slice of pineapple and slid it into his mouth.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Kirk cleared his throat. “Bones, Spock and I were just discussing the visit from Ambassador Cleil. I haven’t received your report, either.”

“Here it is: Cleil was great, so give her people entrance into the Federation to protect them from Klingons, or whatever.” Leonard was not looking at the Captain as he spoke. He seemed to be entranced with the sight of Spock slowly eating the fruit.

Spock licked a drop of juice from his fingertip. “My report will echo that conclusion.”

Kirk glanced back and forth between them. “Gentlemen, is there something you’d like to share with me?”

“What do you mean, Jim?” Leonard leaned over and placed his hand on Spock’s leg.

Spock reached down and gripped him tightly, rubbing his thumb over the back of Leonard’s perfect knuckles. He could feel Leonard inching closer and closer to the inside of his thigh, and he did not try to deter him. “Do you believe we are behaving in an unusual manner, Captain?”

Kirk shook his head and raised both brows. “No, no,” he said sarcastically. “This is all...perfectly...normal.” He chuckled, his smile making him seem to glow at the sight of them.

Spock inclined his head. “Then if you will excuse us. Doctor, I believe we should go attend to our reports.”

“You’re right.” Leonard placed the cover back on his half-eaten meal. “I’ll help you. Many hands make light work, you know.”

Spock stood, and Leonard let his hand slide slowly from his leg. Leonard’s eyes were glinting dangerously as scrambled after Spock, leaving his tray on the table.

“Can you take care of that, Jim?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Kirk blinked at the tray.

“And eat your damn salad!”

Spock saw, as they exited the mess hall, Kirk reaching across the table to pick up the remains of Leonard’s pastrami sandwich. He did not comment. Instead, he entangled his fingers with Leonard’s and pulled him through the door, admiring Leonard’s bright smile and the subtle wafting scent of his warm joy.

They had a duty to attend to.


End file.
